D.A.H.R. Part Three: "In Times of Despair"
by Trillgirl
Summary: Part three of the "Death Avenged, Honor Restored" series. Worf is captured by a mysterious cult. What do they want with him?


Disclaimer: Deep Space Nine and the Deep Space Nine characters belong to Paramount. I'm just using them in my story. Tonika, Kavi, Elij, Pradak, Jeric, Callahan, Lanya, and Rilo are mine. This story is dedicated to Terry Farrell and Michael Dorn, the two wonderful people who brought the beautiful union of Dax and Worf to life.  
  
"Death Avenged, Honor Restored"  
Part Three of Four  
"In Times of Despair"  
  
There was no direction in the void. Up, down, sideways, backward- none of those existed, yet he was aware that he was constantly moving. There was no sound, either. Absolute silence reigned. Time meant nothing here. He didn't know how long he'd been mindlessly drifting; it could have been five minutes or five hundred years. All he could focus on was that he shouldn't be here. Sometimes the darkness seemed inviting, and he wanted nothing more than to surrender to it and become a part of all this nothingness. Other times it was the enemy, surrounding him, oppressing him with its smothering layers and cryptic folds, so that if he gave in to the temptation he would be swallowed forever, all traces of individuality swept away, and he would be forgotten. And that was more frightening than death. Then a white light penetrated the blackness in a scintillating shaft, intriguing even as an inner voice commanded him to turn away and ignore it. No, let it fade. You can stay here. It's safe here. Nothing can happen to you if you stay. As the illumination began to fade, he was suddenly seized by desperation, and reached out to it, summoning the strength to follow the light wherever it might lead.  
  
The moment Worf awoke, swimming in vertigo and disorientation, he knew he had a problem. The gray walls around the hard bunk on which he lay were unfamiliar. Gone was the clean, bright, sharp-edged ambiance characteristic to Starfleet ships. It was obvious he was no longer aboard the Shenandoah. Now all the unpleasant details flooded his mind once more. The last thing he remembered was a Jem'Hadar soldier firing a phaser rifle into his chest. So how could he still be alive pondering his situation? A blast from that close range and into such a vital area of the body should have killed him instantly. Hesitantly, he touched the front of his uniform. His hand came away clean, with no traces of the blood that should have been saturating the fabric. A glance down confirmed it: it was like the events of the past few hours- if it had been that short a time- had never happened. Presumably whoever's brig he was sitting in was an ally, since they had healed him. But any hopes Worf had of being in hospitable hands were shattered when he stiffly hauled himself to a sitting position and saw the scaly Jem'Hadar pace in front of the forcefield. His hand drifted down and felt the empty holster where his phaser had been. This was not good. The Klingon needed time to gather his thoughts. Thankful that the Jem'Hadar had not noticed he was awake, he lay back down on the uncomfortable bunk and closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness. It was obvious how he'd gotten here. The Jem'Hadar had taken him prisoner when they left the Shenandoah. And where was the runabout? Most likely destroyed. But why had they bothered to heal him? The Dominion didn't show that kind of mercy. Where were they going? Back to Cardassia? Only time would tell, he supposed.  
His musing was interrupted when the guard's heavy footsteps stopped in front of his cell. Worf lay still as the forcefield was deactivated. His body instinctively tensed for battle when he heard the Jem'Hadar's heavy footsteps encroach into the tiny room. If he could take his guard by surprise, there might be a chance of escape. The instant he felt a meaty hand clamp onto his shoulder, he sprang up from his prone position on the bunk and whipped his fist up into the soldier's face. As the reptilian sentry stumbled back, caught off guard, Worf seized the phaser and ripped it from his hands, turning it on the Jem'Hadar and transforming his face into a charred, oozing mess. His armored body thumped to the floor in a splatter of blood. The Klingon cautiously exited the cell and swung around, scanning for any other guards. No one was in sight, so he made his way to the door of the brig and out into the maze of corridors. He recognized the arrangement of the halls from the ship schematic that Captain Sisko had ordered the entire crew to memorize some time ago in case a situation like this ever occurred. All Dominion attack ships were constructed using identical design except for the larger battle cruisers. The layout was relatively simple- no fancy detours, just a direct, efficient route to wherever you needed to go. That was the Dominion: efficient. The bridge was located on the middle deck of the ship, where it would be the most protected from enemy fire. Since there were no viewscreens, only small headsets worn by the commander of the vessel, it didn't have to be on the top deck like Starfleet ships. And of course no chairs cluttered up the bridge: the Jem'Hadar didn't require rest, only a replenishment of ketracel-white when the supply in their neck tubes had diminished. The infirmary was nonexistent. Why bother to waste time and resources healing a wounded Jem'Hadar- or Vorta, for that matter- when you could just create a new one? No replicators or mess hall around, either. The Jem'Hadar didn't eat, and neither did the Founders. The lack of proper food had been quite a problem when Captain Sisko, along with the rest of the crew, had taken a captured Dominion vessel into Cardassian space and destroyed a major ketracel-white facility. Worf had been on the Rotarran with General Martok at the time, but had heard stories about it later. That mission had been extremely confidential at first. They could discuss it with no one, not even their most trusted friends and colleagues from other posts. Because of that complete secrecy, they had almost been destroyed by an uninformed Starfleet ship, the Centaur, commanded by Sisko's old friend Charlie Reynolds. Cadet Nog, the least experienced, had been optimistic, reminding a woeful Chief O'Brien of the field rations that they had brought along. But O'Brien, who'd had to survive on only packaged, freeze-dried food on more than one occasion, still had his doubts. A gourmet meal became the least of their worries when the bomb they had beamed down to the facility, disguised as a ketracel-white container, detonated prematurely. Trapped inside the security net, they'd had to rely on sheer luck and Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax's piloting skills to get out safely. Jadzia had done her job well as always, but to no avail. The explosion had damaged the ship's warp core matrix, leaving them stranded in Dominion territory without warp drive. No sooner had they begun the seventeen-year trip home than two more Dominion vessels had marooned them on a deserted planet in an uncharted nebula. An explosion at the helm console had injured Jadzia and left her and the ancient symbiont she carried near death. The handful of crew members who'd survived the impact struggled to shore after crashing in the ocean and set up camp in a sheltered cavern while, unbeknownst to them, ten Jem'Hadar and their fatally wounded Vorta were suffering the same fate after their ship had been damaged. Only when Nog and Garak were captured while on a scouting mission and taken to the Dominion camp was the Starfleet team made aware of their presence. The Vorta, Keevan, cared nothing for the Jem'Hadar he commanded, only about taking care of his injuries. So Doctor Bashir and Captain Sisko had exchanged themselves for Garak and Nog. Bashir's revered Hippocratic Oath kicked in when he got his first glimpse of the injured Vorta. After the surgery and a long talk with Keevan, Sisko and Bashir were allowed to go free. Keevan had given them his soldiers' attack plan, to be implemented the next morning. After they had been forced to kill all ten Jem'Hadar, the Starfleet team had taken the Vorta into custody and repaired a damaged Dominion comm system to contact the Rotarran for rescue. Worf's stomach had clenched with anxiety when he heard that his precious Jadzia, his fiancee, his parmach'kai, had been injured. / The uneventful day on the Rotarran instantly livened up when N'Garan glanced up from her console and reported,  
"General, we are receiving a distress call- with a Dominion signature." Martok frowned.   
"Put it through." The magnified face that appeared on the screen, though, was not the placid face of a Vorta or the perpetually angry expression of a Jem'Hadar, but the welcome, familiar face of Captain Benjamin Sisko.   
"Captain!" roared Martok gleefully. "What is your position?" Sisko gave him the coordinates and waited patiently while the general instructed Ch'Targ, his helmsman, to plot a course. When he'd turned back to the viewscreen, Sisko informed him,  
"When you arrive, we need medical supplies immediately to prepare Dax for transport." Worf, standing quietly at Martok's side in case he was needed, stepped forward with obvious fear for Dax in his eyes and blurted,  
"What happened to Jadzia? Is she all right?" Sisko gave him a reassuring smile.  
"She'll be fine, Mr. Worf, as long as she gets proper medical attention soon." The Klingon had so many more frantic questions, but was interrupted when the image on the screen flickered and was overcome by static. N'Garan tried to reestablish contact, but could not find the signal. Martok noticed his expression and said quietly,  
"Jadzia will live, my friend. She is a strong woman, very strong. Besides, she is engaged. She wouldn't even consider dying before her own wedding!" At the thought of the upcoming ceremony Worf couldn't hide a grin.   
"No." Even at maximum warp, the Rotarran seemed to be moving as slow as a gagh worm. Worf was on his way to the transporter room as soon as the planet where Jadzia and the others were stranded appeared on the viewscreen. When he materialized on the surface, a warm gust of wind struck him from the side, blowing sharp, biting particles of sand into his eyes. He pivoted fully around, but saw no Starfleet officers waiting for him. Instead, the inert bodies of ten dead Jem'Hadar soldiers lay at the bottom of a deep ravine.  
"Commander Worf!" The Klingon turned upon hearing his name being called by a strained female voice. Not Jadzia's. Lieutenant Neeley emerged from behind a large outcropping of rocks and motioned to him. He scrambled up to join her, and they jogged side by side back to their camp while she filled him in on the details.   
When they reached the caves, they found Sisko, O'Brien, Bashir, Garak, and Nog gone. Since they hadn't expected that the Rotarran would arrive so soon, Sisko had taken the team and was searching for food and drinkable water. Neeley told him,  
"I'll contact the captain. Commander Dax is inside." She pointed to the cavern's mouth.  
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Without waiting for her to show him the way, he plunged into the cave opening. Jadzia lay on a hard slab of rock protruding from the wall, eyes closed, hands clutched around the thin blanket that covered her. She was shivering from cold, or pain, or both. It was obvious that the Trill was wearing nothing under the blanket, as her uniform, neatly folded, lay next to her boots on the dusty floor of the cave.   
"Jadzia!" She flinched as the silence in the cavern was suddenly broken by his voice, but gasped, instantly recognizing him.  
"Worf!" she croaked weakly, and rolled towards him, only to yelp in pain and fall back. The Klingon was at her side in an instant, gently stroking her sweat-dampened hair.  
"Are you injured badly?" She smiled in spite of the discomfort of her wounds and grasped his hand, ecstatic over seeing him again. Now that Worf was here, she knew everything was going to turn out all right. Jadzia craved for him to pick her up in his strong arms so she would feel enveloped in safety.  
"It's not so bad anymore. Julian did what he could. He says I'm stable for the moment." Worf's eyes fell to where the blanket provided what little modesty it could.   
"Did the doctor...?" He hated to think of anyone seeing Jadzia undressed except him, but was embarrassed to voice his concern. She laughed in understanding.  
"No, Worf. Lieutenant Neeley helped me take my uniform off. Julian didn't see anything."  
"Good." Uncomfortable with this discussion now, he reached for her uniform and shook the dust off of it.  
"General Martok is waiting with the Rotarran. I will help you dress." Their eyes locked, and he bent down to kiss her gently. She chuckled as he helped her stand and slip carefully into her uniform.  
"Usually you're helping me get undressed- very quickly. This is certainly a change."  
"Yes, it is." Jadzia struggled to hold onto him and tug her shirt over her head at the same time. The Klingon paused in assisting his parmach'kai and gazed at her, devouring her beauty and perfection. / He had loved her so much, but had sometimes found it hard to tell her in words. No spoken sentence could ever describe the love that bound them together. He couldn't fathom life without her. During his time on the Enterprise, Worf had seen his share of women, but never found anyone so perfect, so understanding, so easy to love as Jadzia. She was very mysterious, the centuries-old symbiont she bore within her like a perpetually unborn child possessing so many combined memories from multiple lifetimes. Yet that was one of the innumerable things he adored about her. Her complexity was intriguing. Curzon, her previous host, had been the Federation ambassador to the Klingon Empire and a famed negotiator of the Khitomer Accords. The old man's experiences gave Jadzia a zest for Klingon food, traditions, combat, opera- anything related to their culture. Her partiality to everything Klingon made her the perfect match for Worf from almost the moment they met. First they had shared a deep friendship, spending almost every free moment together. Later on, it had actually been Jadzia who made the first move towards romance. Grilka, a Klingon woman who was Quark's ex-wife, caught Worf's attentions, irritating the Trill, who'd been after him herself. A complicated series of events quickly unfolded, ending with the two of them alone in a holosuite. Much to his surprise, Jadzia had challenged him to combat, then confronted him with the traditional Klingon words to express deep passion. He finally realized what a wonderful woman had been right in front of him all along and surrendered to her advances. Needless to say, the two of them had ended up in Bashir's infirmary with a few broken bones, a lot of bruises, and avid eagerness to see what the future held. Those had been glorious times. He felt immortal when he lay awake during the night, watching her sleep in his arms, usually with one of hers thrown across his broad, muscle-toned chest. Beautiful did not even begin to describe her. Jadzia was as radiant as a goddess, especially in her sleep, with her smooth skin and provocative mottling of spots venturing down beneath where the blanket covered her. She was fortunate that she was also muscular and able to endure the unbridled vigorousness associated with Klingon lovemaking. This had not surprised him. He tended to forget that Jadzia was not Klingon and lost himself in the joy of having a companion as concordant as her. Time just flew by. It seemed as if only days had passed when they actually married. On that exhausting night, after the ceremony and the reception and a party of their own in their new quarters, the two of them had agreed that to go to Bashir's infirmary to have their many bruises and sprains treated would be to invalidate the significance and honor of their newlywed state. What normally would have been discomfort from their wounds was replaced by an invigorating feeling of excitement about their new and greatly improved lives together, and that joy had led them to make love again. When they woke in the morning, wrapped up together in the blankets, aching pleasantly from the night before, they couldn't even remember falling asleep, fatigued as they'd been. It just seemed so right for them to be together.  
Worf made mental notes of his surroundings as he crept stealthily through the corridors of the Dominion ship, unnoticed as of the moment. At first glance, the Klingon could have been on any Jem'Hadar vessel. Most of the walls were gray, drab, and undecorated, as was the carpet. Come to think of it, the entire Dominion was gray. Their ships, their soldiers, their uniforms, their allies.... It seemed to be the Founders' favorite color, except that the Changelings themselves were more of a tan. But there were certain things about this vessel that were different. Every ten feet or so, a tarnished silver plate balanced on a thin metal post, holding what looked like a fat ceremonial candle. All the candles were lit and oozing wax. The thin, runny streams, though, didn't quite conceal the detailed designs carved into the sides. Every once in a while, as Worf slipped quietly past another closed door, he would pass a colorful painting hung in between two candle stands. The artwork displayed upon them depicted not famous, revered people, not a picturesque nature scene that might have been a favorite vacation spot of someone on board, but fierce, raging fire. Solid walls of flame, moving like an advancing army to annihilate anything in its path. Tongues of fire, hovering above objects as if marking them for a curse. And a disturbingly realistic picture of a man consumed in flames, writhing in agony as his skin dripped off of him like the melting wax off these eerie candles, his face contorted in a scream, captured for eternity in this artist's perception of hell. Whoever had painted these was either very talented or possessed. Or both. No sane person could have created these hideous works of art.   
Suddenly the sound of approaching footsteps met his alert ears. Reacting with a warrior's lightning-quick thinking, Worf ducked into an alcove that housed an emergency communications console and held his confiscated phaser rifle up against his chest. His heart was pounding with battle lust so loudly that the Klingon feared for a moment that the approaching enemy might hear its beats. Two faint shadows appeared on the floor, preceding their owners. When the soldiers came past his hiding spot a moment later, Worf was shocked. One of them was a Jem'Hadar, as would be expected on a Dominion ship. The other was a Bajoran. He almost leaped out of the shadows to jump the Jem'Hadar and attempt to free his prisoner and gain an ally. Then he took a closer look. The Bajoran's wrists weren't clamped into stasis restraints, nor were any weapons drawn. No, he was walking beside the Dominion soldier, and the two were talking almost companionably. This was very strange, seeing a face other than one with cold gray scales aboard a ship of this type. It was entirely possible that the Bajoran was a collaborator and working with the Dominion, but very unlikely. Since the Cardassians were also members of the opposing side, the Bajorans had developed an even deeper hatred of them. The Klingon's astonishment grew as a third person, a Romulan, emerged from a side corridor and joined the first two. Worf was able to overhear a fragment of their conversation as the three men continued past him.   
"We should be arriving at Soukara in approximately four hours," the Romulan informed the Bajoran, who gave him a toothy grin in response.   
"Excellent. And the prisoners?"  
"Collectively, there are currently fifty-nine prisoners," answered the Jem'Hadar. "They are being prepared for transport as we speak, but we lost much time on this mission."  
"So we'll be a little late. It doesn't matter," the Bajoran mused, rubbing his hands together. He appeared to be in charge of this strange situation. "The Master will understand. Never has such a large collection been brought in at once. And remember who we have in our brig."  
"It was unanticipated that we would locate the Klingon," agreed the Romulan. "I wonder if there will be a reward for finding the man that the Master wanted so badly." The Jem'Hadar asked,  
"Why is this particular Klingon so important to him? He is not a prominent political figure or spiritual leader." They were talking about him, Worf realized with a shudder of something resembling both anger and dread. "We could have gotten any Klingon instead of going out of our way to get this one." The Bajoran's head swung around at the topic of their bickering.  
"That is none of our business," he shot at them, his voice unexpectedly tinged with ice. "The Master's desires are not for us to question. Do you understand that?" The Jem'Hadar cast his eyes downward.  
"I serve the Master," he muttered.   
"As do we all." Satisfied now, the Bajoran turned and stared straight ahead. The Romulan began to speak, but by now the men were out of earshot. Worf slumped against the wall. This complicated things even more. Whoever this "Master" was apparently wanted him for something. And they were headed to Soukara! There was a Dominion base on the jungle-blanketed planet, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that this wasn't an ordinary Dominion ship. Time to get moving. The Klingon desperately needed more information if he was to survive.   
  
Captain Sisko twirled his well-worn leather baseball between his fingers and stared out into Ops, not really seeing the hustle going on down in the command center of Deep Space Nine. An unfinished weekly report for Starfleet Command lay untouched on his desk. His thoughts were continually being drawn to the message from Gul Dukat that Worf was supposed to have received five days ago, but had come in shortly after his departure on the Shenandoah. "No sacrifice is in vain. You'll understand soon." What the hell did that mean? Dukat was not one to speak in riddles. In the past he hadn't hesitated to be perfectly blunt and straightforward about what he wanted. Most Cardassians were like that. But now all of a sudden Dukat was hiding his true intentions behind enigmatic words. Sisko supposed he should have informed Starfleet Command of the message and its contents. But something held him back. Worry, maybe, for Worf's sake. Or perhaps it was the feeling that this went a little deeper than what Dukat alone wanted. That he planned to use Worf to contribute to something bigger. Whatever it was, the captain knew that the Cardassian would never succeed. Worf was just too strong, too loyal, to give in to anything Dukat wanted. Sisko sighed. He deeply hated this war. His father, Joseph Sisko, had complained once,  
"You know, there's something I just don't understand. You're always telling me that space is big, that it's an endless frontier, filled with infinite wonders." To which Ben had eagerly replied,  
"It's true!" Joseph Sisko had answered,  
"Well, if that's the case, you would think it would be more than enough room for people to just leave each other alone." Wouldn't that be nice. But things just didn't work that way. There were always the dictatorial, power-hungry people who had to have things their own way. Like this damned, ever-present Dominion. Why couldn't they just stay in the Gamma Quadrant where they belonged? At the thought of the Dominion, Sisko's concentration was drawn to the abnormally large presence at Cardassia Prime. There were always ships stationed at the Dominion headquarters, but for so many massive fleets to rendezvous there had to signify danger. A plan was no doubt being schemed up at this very moment. What were they going to do? His thoughts turned ominously to the coveted Deep Space Nine under his command. It had been humiliating for the Dominion troops to pull out, after finally detonating the mine field and preparing for the arrival of reinforcements, only to discover that the thousands of Jem'Hadar ships were nowhere in sight and they were about to be overrun by many very angry, very heavily armed Starfleet vessels. DS9 was still a much-desired target. It was likely that the Founders would want it under Dominion rule once more. And what about this confusing situation with Gul Dukat? Weyoun had stated in no uncertain terms that the Dominion was looking for Dukat because he had supposedly defected. If they thought the Federation was aiding him, things could get quite ugly. Hopefully their weapons system would be operational soon, after Chief O'Brien installed the master differential relay that Worf had brought back. The Klingon had had an unexpected escort: two Jem'Hadar attack ships and a Cardassian Galor-class cruiser. The three Dominion vessels had given Sisko and his crew quite a scare, since they'd been without weapons at the time of their arrival. Amazingly, Worf had been the one to fire on the station, disabling their shields just long enough to beam them the new and greatly appreciated relay. But then he'd turned and gone back towards Cardassian space under cloak. At least, Sisko assumed that's where he'd gone, since his pursuers had reversed course as well. The captain was worried about the Klingon's safety, and the rest of the crew obviously had their doubts about whether or not he still lived. Kira was trying to keep their spirits up by assuring them that if anyone was faster, stronger, and smarter than the Dominion, it was Worf. They all pretended to believe her, and Sisko was grateful to them for trying. Ezri Dax was the only one who couldn't hide it. She was terrified for Worf; anyone could see that. The Jadzia in her wanted desperately to be out there searching for him, even though in her rational mind she knew she would be more help to everyone here on DS9. Suddenly the captain needed to talk to someone. He tapped his comm badge.  
"Sisko to Dax." He half expected to hear Jadzia's melodious voice over the comm channel, and it was always a shock when a different one spoke.  
"Dax here, Benjamin."  
"Would you mind coming to my office, Old Man?" Sisko smiled to himself; that nickname had stuck with the host of the Dax symbiont for three lifetimes now.  
"I've got a patient right now. I'll be up after I finish this counseling session. Dax out." Sisko leaned back in his chair, threw the baseball up, and caught it, looking out over Ops once more.  
  
Worf, sweat saturating the back of his neck and the collar of his uniform, cradled his commandeered Jem'Hadar phaser rifle and moved stealthily along the corridors of the mysterious ship. He closed his eyes briefly and visualized the schematic floating through his brain. Right now, if his memory served him correctly, he was in a corridor containing nothing but cargo holds. Around the corner were the crew barracks. Why did the Jem'Hadar need quarters anyway? They didn't eat, sleep, or have sex. One would have thought they'd be perfectly content to stay on the bridge all the time. Past the barracks and down a level was his target: the bridge. True, he was only one man with one weapon, but with any luck he would surprise the bridge crew enough to be able to lock his phaser on the Vorta in charge. The Jem'Hadar would do whatever they were told in order to ensure the safety of their precious overseer. An alarm whooped suddenly and flooded the corridors with noise like a child who's just woken up and discovered that he's thirsty.   
"Intruder alert!" boomed a deep voice over the shipwide comm system. "Security to brig!" Now it was starting. Someone had discovered the dead guard outside his cell and found him gone. From this point on they would be looking for him. They were thirsty, all right- for blood. The broadcast continued, "Prisoner may be armed. I repeat, prisoner may be armed." You're damned right I'm armed. The Klingon ran down the hall of cargo holds and turned past the barracks. A turbolift lay to his left, but he knew better than to take it. The Jem'Hadar could easily cut the power while he was inside, stranding him until they came to his "rescue." There was a removable conduit access panel a few feet from the turbolift doors. Pulling it off, he wriggled inside and, with some difficulty, snapped it back on behind him. As soon as the panel was on, he heard heavy bootsteps pounding down the corridor.  
"This way!"  
"Cover me!"  
"You- get down to the brig and see where he might have gone. You- check the cargo holds." As Worf listened in smug satisfaction over eluding them, he noted that some of the voices didn't have the same deep, rumbling, raspy quality like the Jem'Hadar. Cardassian, maybe? Although it was rare to find a Cardassian on a Dominion ship. That was one of the many things keeping their unsteady alliance from being perfect. The Jem'Hadar insisted on serving on the Cardassian ships, yet wouldn't let the Cardassians board their vessels unless it was absolutely necessary. It was the Dominion's selfishness that might one day work against them. One voice was vaguely familiar, and Worf recognized it as the Romulan who'd come from a side corridor to talk to the Jem'Hadar and Bajoran not long ago. How many different species were on this ship? The guards' conversation faded, indicating they had moved on to search a different area. Instead of squeezing back out into the corridor, Worf executed a tight 180-degree turn and crawled down the conduit. Since he had gone through the trouble of stuffing his broad-shouldered frame in here, he might as well see what he could sabotage. After he had gone about ten feet, a bright orange panel caught his eye. Rolling onto his back, he detached the panel. None of the components inside looked familiar. The Klingon was hesitant about touching anything, not knowing what it was. He might activate the auto-destruct sequence if he yanked the wrong wire. Worf replaced the panel reluctantly and continued forward. When he finally came to the end of the access tunnel, he called up the schematic in his head once more. If he had entered the conduit near the Jem'Hadar barracks and went straight until he came to this green door, beyond that hatch lay the bridge! The phaser rifle hung over his shoulder by a thick woven strap. After a struggle with it in the claustrophobically small tunnel, he maneuvered the weapon up in front of him. Jadzia fit so much better in tight spaces. I may have had the advantage of size in our bat'leth combats, but there are times when smaller is better. Worf listened carefully for any noise coming from the other side of the panel. The walls are probably soundproof, he concluded when silence met his ears. Oh, well. The Dominion might have been on home turf, but the Klingon had the advantage of surprise on his side. Not hesitating any longer, he slammed forward, sending the door hurtling out onto the bridge. Worf tumbled out of the conduit, rolled expertly as he hit the floor, and came up standing, phaser poised and ready.  
"If anyone moves, it will be their last!" He had expected shock to be present on the faces of the bridge crew. Maybe fear. At least a little annoyance that he had burst into their command center uninvited. But their expressions gave away nothing. The officers- an odd mix of Jem'Hadar, Cardassians, Bajorans, Bolians, even Humans- regarded him as they might look at a mendicant on the side of the road, begging them for money or a tiny morsel of food. Barely a glance to acknowledge his presence, then back to what you were doing with no second thoughts.   
"Hello, Commander Worf." The Klingon swung towards the new male voice, phaser still raised. The speaker stood in the shadows behind the expansive weapons station, hidden by a massive Jem'Hadar. "I see you've found the bridge. How clever of you." Worf's lip curled, and he snarled,  
"Show yourself, you coward!"   
"Oh, come now, Commander, there's no need to be nasty." Judging by the slightly sarcastic tone, the speaker was probably a Vorta. Before he could shoot back an answer, the owner of the voice continued, "I suppose you're wondering how we know your name. We did a simple DNA scan when you were beamed aboard." Now the speaker stepped out of the shadows, revealing himself, much to Worf's surprise, as not a Vorta but the Bajoran from the corridor. He was short, about five feet, and was dwarfed by the Jem'Hadar behind which he'd been standing. His hair was a radiant red that matched the stone in his traditional clan earring, and his eyes were an unnerving, piercing emerald. When the light glinted off them just right, they almost- glowed? "I apologize about your little stay in the brig. Normally we allow our cooperative passengers free roam of the ship, to a certain extent, but you proved yourself to be the exact opposite to the Jem'Hadar who beamed over to your runabout. The Shenandoah, by the way, is being towed in our tractor beam. She's in good condition, considering the action we had to take when you tried to elude us." Worf did not lower his phaser rifle. Passengers? More like prisoners. He hadn't seen anyone else wandering the corridors, so apparently they hadn't capitulated easily either. Good.  
"Who are you?" The Bajoran smiled.   
"Well, I guess that's fair." Striding forward, he held out his hand. "Molina Elij." Worf didn't take the proffered hand, instead shoving the tip of the phaser into Molina's chest. Finally taking the hint, he backed off, smiling, and raised both hands in the air for peace. "If that's the way you want it."  
"Why are we going to Soukara?" Worf interrogated, not expecting an answer. He didn't get a good one, but was satisfied to see the Bajoran's face twitch slightly, not expecting him to know their heading.  
"The Master requires your presence." Oh, that helps.   
"Who is the Master?" The crew responded more to this simple inquiry than to his dramatic entrance onto the bridge. As one, their heads jerked up from their consoles. All chatter instantly ceased. Even the computer's background noise seemed to fade. Worf looked back to Molina for the answer to his question. Molina's face had paled, and his eyes had opened wide. When he spoke, it was in a whisper so low that Worf had to strain to hear him.  
"His sacred name may not be spoken by such unworthy followers as us. And you." Worf, ignoring the hypnotized looks of the bridge crew, snapped back,  
"I follow no one." Molina's unexpected sinister smile sent an involuntary shiver down the Klingon's spine.   
"Not yet." As if silently summoned, a scaly Jem'Hadar appeared and placed a viewing headset in Molina's hand. He slipped it on as the Jem'Hadar retreated and turned towards where a viewscreen would normally be, staring at the wall and ignoring Worf entirely. Worf, left to look at Molina's back, was completely frustrated. The rest of the incongruous crew paid him no attention either. Poised to leap forward, he aimed his phaser at Molina. And that was when he saw the Bajoran's red armband.  
  
The construction was going well. The Master gazed out over his domain, feeling a growing sense of satisfaction. How glorious it would be when all this was finally complete! An entire city devoted to the worship of the wondrous gods! He adjusted his cloak around his shoulders and stepped away from the window of his private dwelling, located on one of the tallest hills in this area. One day soon his grand palace would be erected on the hillside, overlooking the city that his loyal followers had built. And they were his followers, even if they didn't know it. When this project was finished, they all would come to see how caring the Pagh'Wraiths were and how lucky they were to have their blessings. Many of them didn't understand at the moment. They just wanted to stay wrapped up in their own selfish lives, not willing to sacrifice now and contribute to a cause that would one day bring them more joy and prosperity than they had ever dreamed about. A high-power telescope was set up on his balcony, allowing him a close-up view of the workers who were building the holy city, stone by stone, temple by temple. It was rare that he actually journeyed down into the city. He preferred to remain unseen, keeping a shroud of mystery between him and his followers for the time being. But on the occasions when he did enter Bal'gurna- a beautiful name, it translated as "Garden of Flame"- he always wore loose, concealing garments, hiding his face in the folds of a hood. Only his personal attendants, who had made their own decisions to serve him, had ever seen and spoken to him directly. He utterly trusted the four of them, especially Elij. When he'd first come here, the Bajoran had been hateful and rebellious. But then he'd realized the true divinity of the city unfolding around him, and come to the Master, begging to do all he could to aid in its construction. Elij was his most loyal servant now, and had risked his life on many occasions for the good of Bal'gurna. The Master went to his telescope and peered through the eyepiece, focusing on a group of workers gathered around a pile of large stones. As he observed them with a sense of pride, they broke their huddle and each bent over, wrapping their arms around a rock and lifting it with much effort. Everyone except a single female, a young Klingon. She stood defiantly in front of the group's three Jem'Hadar guards and yelled something at them, unintelligible from where he watched. The first Jem'Hadar immediately drew his arm back, and a long, razorlike plasma whip unfolded in the scorching sunlight. The whip descended on the Klingon, who staggered but made an obscene gesture at the guards. Now the other two Jem'Hadar raised their glittering weapons, identical to the first, and proceeded to beat her until she was forced to her knees. As soon as the Jem'Hadar had backed off, she tried to get up but was shaking too badly. Another worker, an older Romulan, approached the girl and wrapped a hand around her upper arm, forcing her to her feet. He looked ready to help her with her rock, but she shook off his hand and hefted it herself, leading the rest of her work group around a corner and out of the Master's line of sight. He sighed somewhat sympathetically and straightened up. It was a dreadful shame about that Klingon. Her whole group, really. They were the most unpredictable of anyone in Bal'gurna. Attempts to lead rebellions always began with them. Over time, additional Jem'Hadar soldiers had been necessary to keep them under control. The Master disliked having to use force on his followers, but sometimes it had to be done to remind them who they were working for. Barrack 7, into which the Klingon, the Romulan, a Bolian, a Bajoran, and a Human had been separated when they proved to be exceedingly difficult, never failed to stir up trouble. Too bad. The five of them were a strong group, and he was certain they would have worked well together if they had been so inclined. Approaching footsteps on the tile floor made him turn. A Bajoran woman stood in the doorway, her hands folded in front of her. She said, with her eyes cast downward,  
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Master, but we've just received word that the latest group of workers will be here within two days."  
"I'm glad to hear it." He smiled. He had gotten to like this particular woman, known only to him as Kolara, as she hadn't provided him with a family name. She was easy to talk to, most likely because she was so quiet. Kolara kept to herself and wasn't likely to divulge any information he revealed to her. "Come," he beckoned, holding out his hand to her. The Bajoran was quite lovely, even though she wore a long robe and hood concealing her face. Under the fabric, her hair was an almost white blond, similar to the pale tone of her skin, and her eyes an oddly attractive purple. She approached hesitantly, and looked where he pointed out of the window. "Bal'gurna," he said with satisfaction. "Beautiful, don't you agree?"  
"Yes, Master." It was about 2030 in the evening now; the sun was sinking still lower in Soukara's sky. Its light, cast on the half-completed city before them, threw a gleam over the buildings and domed temples as if they had been set aflame. Magnificent. The Master reached for Kolara's hand and squeezed it briefly before glancing at her. The Bajoran seemed to become entranced as well whenever she gazed out over Bal'gurna. She was very fortunate. Not many were privileged enough to have a view like this. It made a person feel almost almighty themselves to witness it. He turned to Kolara.   
"I want you at my side when this is all completed, my child."  
"I would like nothing more, Master." He smiled and gently pushed the hood back from her face. Startled, she fell back a step. The Master required all his servants to wear a robe similar to his own, plus a draped hood, which he himself only wore when he entered Bal'gurna. His pleased expression, though, put her at ease.  
"I'm grateful that you speak your mind with me, child. Many of my followers- those who have spoken to me in person, that is- find it hard to trust me with their inner thoughts." Kolara's timid eyes flicked upward to meet his for an instant, then back down at the floor.   
"I do not see why, Master. You are benevolent." His hands, large and powerful, enveloped hers.  
"You see? We have advanced beyond the roles of speaker and listener to friends, conversing as equals. Maybe even more than that." The Master's fingers tightened around her delicate ones, and she could sense his eyes roaming over her body, outlined as slender despite the layered garments. Kolara looked up at him again, and saw an order in his piercing eyes. She complied. After all, even though he spoke with the Pagh'Wraiths, there were some things even they weren't capable of giving him.  
  
Captain Sisko almost fell out of his chair with relief when Ezri Dax appeared in the doorway of his office, her fingers intertwined behind her back, one of the many things she did that reminded him of Jadzia. Before he could tell her what was on his mind she announced,  
"Chief O'Brien stopped me on the way up here. He said to tell you that the master differential relay checked out perfectly and that they would begin installing it sometime today."  
"Good." He started to say more, but as an afterthought leapt up and propelled her away from the glass doors, away from the eyes of anyone in Ops. The Trill gave him a strange look.   
"What is it, Ben?"  
"It's about Worf." She probably hadn't meant to let it show, but she looked so happy when he said it that he wished he had good news.  
"You've located him?"  
"I'm afraid not." A part of him melted with his old friend. The disappointment on her pixielike face was evident, and she asked,  
"Then what?"   
"Worf received a message from Gul Dukat the morning he went to Empok Nor. Surprisingly enough, I found out about it from none other than our good friend Weyoun." Ezri was more startled than he'd anticipated she'd be. She gaped at him.   
"You mean Worf didn't tell you about it?" Sisko tugged on his ear.  
"No, not quite. You see, the transmission came in an hour after he left, so he never got the message. But I took the liberty of going up to his quarters and reading it myself."  
"What did it say?"  
"It was very strange. It said 'No sacrifice is in vain. You'll understand soon.' Any idea what that means?" Ezri shrugged.  
"How would I know? I haven't had any contact with Dukat since- well, since he killed Jadzia."  
"Don't think about Dukat," said Sisko. "Think about Worf. Is there anything he might have told you or Jadzia that would have anything to do with this message?" Ezri was drawing a blank.   
"I'm sorry, Ben. I don't remember anything." The Trill thought a moment. "Why did Weyoun tell you about the message?" Now it was the captain's turn to shrug.  
"He said Dukat was a traitor, that the Federation was hiding him in our space." This is where things got confusing.  
"But I thought they gave him a ship! Now he defected? Can't he make up his mind? Besides, why would we help him? He committed countless atrocities against the Federation and Bajor, took DS9, led a war against us, murdered Jadzia-." Ezri's recitation of accusations was cut off when Sisko held up a hand.  
"Thank you, Old Man, but I don't need a list. And that's the same question I asked myself." He paused. "Dukat couldn't have been contacting Worf for help like Weyoun claimed, could he? Worf, of all people."   
"I doubt it. Worf despised him. I don't think he would have helped him for anything." Ezri sighed, suddenly feeling very lonely and abandoned. What if Worf is dead out there? "If only Worf was here. He might be able to give us some answers." Sisko was silent as he watched her sink down on the couch. She looked up at him, suddenly appearing her three-hundred-some years. "Has there been any word on him at all?" The captain shook his head.  
"I wouldn't mind knowing his whereabouts myself. He completed his mission, we saw that much since we have the relay, but why did he run off again? That's not like him at all. I suppose those Dominion vessels on his tail might've had something to do with it. Somehow they seemed to be able to see through the cloak, or else they were just guessing where he was going. He could have been thinking that since our weapons weren't operational, they might have attacked us. So he led them away from DS9." Ezri sputtered,  
"But that's crazy! The Shenandoah's no match for two Jem'Hadar fighters and a Cardassian cruiser. Worf knows that!"  
"Worf's also a Klingon. He'd be willing to sacrifice himself to ensure that DS9 remains safe."   
"You're right." Ezri smiled fondly, her expression not quite hiding the worry she felt. "That's so like him." Then a frown crossed her face. "Do you think he got away?"  
"I don't know. I hope so." Sisko paced his office. "So now the Dominion sees Dukat as the enemy instead of an ally. What changed their minds? And where exactly is Dukat right now? If the Dominion thinks we have him but we think they do, where is he?" The Trill folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs.  
"Starfleet Command would have the latest reports at their disposal. What did they have to say about this whole thing, anyway?" Sisko winced. He'd known this was going to come back and bite him in the rear.   
"I haven't exactly let the brass in on any of this yet." Ezri repeated incredulously,  
"You haven't told them yet?"   
"No." The captain stopped pacing and pointed a finger at her. "And don't you tell anyone either, at this point."   
"Fine. Then what do you want me to do, Ben?"  
"Go to Worf's quarters. If anyone asks why you're going in tell them you have my authorization. Read Dukat's transmission and look for any clues that might help us." Ezri grimaced, not liking the idea of invading Worf's privacy any more than he had.  
"Couldn't you send in a security team? Why me?" She already knew what he was going to say.  
"You've been in there enough times. You know your way around. You're perfect for the job." She stood reluctantly.   
"I don't know what I'm looking for, but I'll give it my best shot."  
"Good luck, Old Man." The corner of her cute mouth quirked up in a small smile, then she was gone, heading back down through Ops and into the turbolift. Sisko sighed and sat on the couch, still warm from Ezri's body. Hopefully she'd have more success than he'd had.  
  
The armbands. The red armbands. Worf's thoughts focused on the only thing that that particular ornamentation could mean. A Pagh'Wraith cult. That would explain the candles and the morbid murals in the corridors. Since he'd been brought here by force, the Klingon had assumed that he was a prisoner, and they had referred to him as an intruder when he'd escaped from the holding cell in which he'd swam unsteadily back to consciousness. But on the bridge, Molina had said that they allowed their "passengers" to go wherever they pleased on the ship, supposedly to instill in them a false sense of security. After that Worf had been given quarters in which he was to remain for the rest of the trip to Soukara. He couldn't move throughout the vessel because of his "earlier conduct" (Worf had snarled when he heard Molina's words; they made him sound like a disobedient child) but they had had enough faith that he wouldn't attempt escape again and hadn't locked him in, even though they'd taken the phaser.   
What did this odd cult want with him? They might have been planning an execution, maybe a ritual sacrifice no doubt involving fire. The Pagh'Wraith followers seemed to be incurable pyromaniacs. Worf wasn't a Bajoran and worshipped neither the Prophets nor the Pagh'Wraiths. That was another strange thing about the crew of this ship. The Klingon would have expected to see only Bajorans, but in addition, there were Romulans, Humans, Jem'Hadar, even Cardassians, all boasting the significant red armbands. He sighed and attempted to get comfortable on a rock-hard bunk in his temporary quarters, formerly Jem'Hadar barracks. The room held four beds, but he was the only one there for the time being. He had pondered escape, but decided it was wise to wait. It would do him no good to get killed, after all. He hadn't completed his self-assigned mission yet. As long as Gul Dukat remained alive, Worf had work to do. There probably wasn't a guard stationed outside the door, but he hadn't gone to look. For right now, he was content to lay low and try to put his jumbled thoughts into some kind of order. But no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the matters at hand, he couldn't stop thinking of Jadzia. Her perfect face kept appearing in his mind, breaking through the clouds of his violent, chaotic thoughts with a radiant smile. Finally he surrendered to the memories. / Jadzia had been gone for almost an hour now. Bajor's blazing sun was dropping down below the mountains, regally beautiful as the color of the sunset spread across the sky like spilled paint. The rest of the senior staff, who had come down to the planet to celebrate Kira's birthday, was playing baseball under Sisko's supervision a short distance away and hadn't noticed that she'd slipped off. Worf himself only realized she was gone when he'd looked for her to select her for his team. Seeing as she wasn't there, he made up an excuse to get out of playing and set off across the field to find Jadzia. When he finally discovered her, she was merely a silhouette in the dim light. The long grass and tall flowers among which she sat almost concealed her entirely. Worf would have walked right past his parmach'kai if she hadn't shifted position as he passed.   
"Jadzia." The Trill hadn't heard him approach and almost jumped out of her spots.   
"Worf!" She punched him lightly in the shoulder as he sat down next to her. "Don't scare me like that!"  
"Where have you been, Jadzia?"  
"Right here."  
"What have you been doing?"  
"Nothing, really. I just felt like being alone for a while." Worf began to stand up in order to respect her wishes.  
"Shall I leave?"  
"No, you don't have to." She grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. "Stay with me for a little while. I was just going to come back."   
"All right." For some time they sat in comfortable silence, enjoying the coolness of the pure mountain night air on their skin. Without warning, Jadzia spoke.   
"I'd love to live in a place like this." When Worf looked at her questioningly, she clarified, "Not right now, of course. After I retire from Starfleet and I'm old and gray."  
"I cannot imagine you old and gray." The Trill laughed. As long as that laugh stayed the same, her youthfulness would be eternal.  
"It happens to the best of us, parmach'kai." He smiled and asked,  
"So you want to live on Bajor when you retire, of course first reaching the rank of admiral with all the privileges?" She wrinkled her nose.  
"Who wants to be a stuffy old admiral? I for one don't want to spend my last years in Starfleet sitting behind a desk not having any fun." A pause, then "I can't see you as an admiral either. I'm envisioning you as a captain, commanding your own ship. An Enterprise maybe." Her words unintentionally sobered them up slightly. She knew as well as he did that the chances of the Klingon getting his own command were slim to none, thanks to their unpleasant mission to Soukara, on which Worf had sacrificed the chance to get information that could have saved millions of lives in order to rescue his wife after she'd been mortally wounded by a Jem'Hadar patrol. Jadzia had lived, but at the cost of Worf's future career. He wouldn't be court-martialed, but Starfleet wouldn't trust him with his own ship. No problem, he'd assured her. A command was nothing compared to her life. Such a true Klingon. He was willing to sacrifice the honor of a command in order to keep his precious parmach'kai alive. But Jadzia could tell Worf was hurting. One of his greatest triumphs in life would have been to have a ship, possibly a future Enterprise. The Trill quickly changed the subject. "Where would you like to live?"  
"Risa," he answered instantly. She stared at him.  
"You can't be serious!"  
"I am not." Sitting back, she sighed,  
"Good." Worf considered for a moment.  
"I would like to retire on Qo'nos."  
"That would be nice, too." They stopped and grinned at each other. Jadzia sighed happily.  
"Oh well, we certainly don't have to decide now." She scooted closer to him and snuggled against his side as his arm snaked around her. Worf nodded and confirmed,  
"We should enjoy the present while it lasts." She gave him a seductive smile.  
"Oh, I'm enjoying you all right." Kissing him demandingly, she forced him onto his back among the flowers. From the hill, as the fly ball landed in his mitt with a satisfying smack, Chief O'Brien caught a glimpse of Worf and Jadzia sinking down below the tall grass and smiled to himself. Throwing the baseball to Jake Sisko, he thought, Worf's the happiest I've ever seen him. He was never really content with anyone like he is now. Jadzia couldn't be more perfect for him. /   
Thoughts of Jadzia were temporarily shoved to the back of Worf's mind when a voice blared over the shipwide comm system.   
"Attention all hands. We will be entering the Soukara system in five minutes and landing on Soukara in ten. Prepare your supplies and lock down all systems except navigation, propulsion, and life support." The Klingon sat up and swung his feet off the top bunk, jumping heavily to the ground. The crew had been ordered to lock down the ship's systems. That was a rarely used procedure, only implemented when the ship was going to be left stationary and uninhabited for a long period of time in a hostile area. Access to the computer was blocked and the doors locked with a complex series of codes that changed every time they were used. That must mean they planned to leave the ship! That made sense. Since the transporter scramblers around Soukara prevented beaming, the only way to get to the surface was to land. If he could somehow stay on board, he could crack the codes and hijack it. Worf didn't even have time to consider doing it. The door to the barracks slid open and the Romulan he'd seen earlier with the Bajoran and Jem'Hadar stepped in, a disruptor pistol in his bony hand. "Come with me, Commander. I have been ordered to bring you to the bridge." Worf walked down the corridor ahead of the Romulan, aware of the weapon at his back. They had almost reached the bridge when the ship ceased humming around them and the lights dimmed, then faded entirely, throwing them into blackness. Near the deck, small rectangular illuminated plates flashed on, revealing Worf's boots and the tips of the Romulan's but nothing else. A perfect ambush situation. The Klingon aimed a punch towards where his guard's head had been and was gratified to feel his fist connect with solid muscle and bone. He heard a grunt and was groping for the disruptor when the weapon slammed brutally into his solar plexus. The air escaped his lungs in one big, gasping exhalation and he fell to the ground, weakened by the blow to such a sensitive area. The door to the bridge opened suddenly, and assailant and victim were joined in the corridor by Molina and a Jem'Hadar, each wielding lightsticks. The Jem'Hadar also carried a phaser.  
"That will be quite enough!" Molina looked furious. "Damn you, Adrar, you were told not to damage him in any way!" The Romulan retorted indignantly, as he tried to staunch the blood gushing from his nose with his sleeve,  
"He attacked me!"   
"You should have controlled yourself," the Bajoran snarled. "You will be disciplined later. Right now our duty is to land safely and make sure that these passengers get to the Master." As Worf struggled to breathe with his bruised chest muscles, he thought, Passengers? The only person that the Klingon had seen on board the vessel without a red armband was himself. He was dragged onto the bridge, which was stuffed to capacity with what must have been the ship's entire crew. Molina put on a viewing headset, squinted, and adjusted it. When the display was to his liking, he turned to the Cardassian at the navigation console.  
"Take us into orbit until we near our landing site."  
"Orbiting." It took a moment before the helmsman announced, "Landing site ahead. Taking us down." Worf, an experienced engineer, didn't even feel the ship shudder under him during the sudden change in atmospheric pressure. From that he concluded that their shields must be heavily reinforced or they had developed some sort of other protection for fast descent onto a planet's surface. Sooner then he had expected, the vessel settled onto its landing legs and hummed to a stop. The Cardassian punched a few controls, and the navigation console went dark.  
"Nav console offline," he told Molina. "All systems locked down." Molina's expression reminded Worf of a feral animal.   
"Excellent." Yanking off the headset, he grimaced and rubbed his temples. "I despise wearing those cursed things. They give me such a headache!" The Bajoran led the way, lightstick held high, to the airlock door and ordered two Jem'Hadar to force it open manually. When they did so, bright sunlight accosted their eyes as the rays of a real sun streamed into the ship. Something immediately seemed strange as Worf got his first familiar whiff of humid Soukara air. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about this place gave it a feeling of impending doom, like a black storm cloud hanging ominously over a picnic site. Worf was jostled out onto the damp soil by the rest of the eager crew and found a phaser jammed into his back once more by the Romulan, who had a nasty-looking bruise and streaks of blood on his face from the Klingon's earlier assault. He turned to voice his annoyance and his words froze in his throat. In addition to the Jem'Hadar ship he had been prisoner on, another identical vessel and a massive, chunky Cardassian Galor-class cruiser had landed, creating quite a stunning spectacle that looked out of place here on the outskirts of a jungle. But that wasn't all. Their airlocks were being pried open as well and dispensing more people. About half proudly displayed the red armbands which Worf now knew so well. But the other half was a scared, confused mass of prisoners, herded like animals by guards with phasers and disruptors. These must be the other people Molina had spoken of! The terrified looks on their faces told Worf that they hadn't been treated nearly as carefully as he had. Most were injured in some way or, if they weren't, supported someone less fortunate. From all directions came screaming and yelling and crying and chaos. Suddenly a middle-aged Human bolted away from the crowd and ran towards the forest. A disruptor beam caught him between the shoulder blades, knocking him to the ground with an ugly-sounding thud. The crowd was immediately silent. A single figure climbed up on a rock near the treeline, creating a backdrop for himself. It was Molina. In his hand he held a disruptor pistol.  
"What you have just witnessed," he bellowed to the hushed crowd, "is an example of those who oppose the Master's leadership. By attempting escape, you are avoiding your duty to the Pagh'Wraiths, whom you are here to serve. Obey, and you will never be happier. Turn against us, and your lives will hold nothing but sorrow."   
"The Pagh'Wraiths are evil!" shrieked a woman in the crowd. Searching out the source of her voice, Worf saw that she was Bajoran. "We will never serve them or any other false gods! The Prophets are the only true gods of Bajor!" The swarm of prisoners cheered loudly, only to fall into silence again when Molina raised his disruptor and fired into the air, severing a large tree branch that fell into the middle of the crowd. Several Bajorans and an Andorian were crushed under its weight. Molina's face was calm when their attention focused on him again.  
"Now," he announced, almost conversationally, "our journey to the holy city of Bal'gurna begins." As the armed guards began directing the scared, sobbing prisoners toward the forest, it became clear that they would be walking to Bal'gurna, wherever that was. Worf's personal guard gestured for him to move.  
"Start walking, Klingon." He turned around and instantly forgot about the phaser the Romulan held, becoming oblivious to the cries of the others around him. This place. This exact field, on the edge of the forest. That's what had seemed so familiar. / Worf picked up two phaser rifles as Jadzia strapped on a backpack. He announced as he joined her at the door of the tiny runabout,  
"We have less than two days to reach the rendezvous point." This was going to be difficult, but that was why it was fun. Jadzia's eyes conveyed the same thought as their gazes met.  
"Ten kilometers a day. That shouldn't be too bad."   
"Do not underestimate the task ahead. We still have to penetrate the sensor grid and avoid the Dominion patrols," the Klingon reminded her. His lovely wife, so brave and so strong, grinned.   
" I know. Find a man in the middle of an alien jungle, then walk him out without getting caught. Piece of cake!" Worf nodded.  
"Ready?" She lifted the phaser he had given her.   
"After you." The Klingon led the way out onto the spongy ground and into the forest. It was nighttime on Soukara, and the moon shining through the gaps in the trees was the only illumination. Jadzia was a mere shadow at his back. For an instant, he wondered if she would be capable of the long hike ahead, then felt ashamed for doubting her. If anyone was strong enough to do this, it was her. The Trill was in as good shape as he was. Worf adjusted his pack on his shoulder and pushed forward. / This valley was the same place he and Jadzia had landed when they came on the mission to bail out Lasaran. The Klingon had never thought he'd see this planet again. An area of skin on his back was beginning to chafe away, thanks to the Romulan and his insistent phaser. "I said move!" Thankfully, his guard dropped back as he entered the jungle with his fellow prisoners. A Deltan fell into step beside him, sweat already glistening on his hairless head. The two men fought for every step against the sucking mud as the Deltan asked angrily,   
"What the hell do they want us for? We don't serve anyone! I've never even heard of these Pagh'Wraiths, or whatever that crazy Bajoran called them!"  
"The Pagh'Wraiths are evil life forms that used to occupy the Bajoran wormhole along with the Prophets that they believe in," explained Worf. "I am uncertain as to why this cult has brought us here." He didn't mention that the Master, whoever he was, had wanted him specifically. A Cardassian, complete with red armband and phaser, materialized out of nowhere.  
"No talking." The trek continued in dead silence, broken only by the squelch of their feet as they were freed with every step from the adherent mud.  
  
Ezri strode down the corridor in the habitat ring, trying to look nonchalant, but inside she was almost sick with anxiety. The last time she'd been in her- their- Worf's - quarters was on the morning of the mission to the Chintaka system to take out the orbital weapons platforms. She remembered how Jadzia had been roused at the sound of the computer's voice at 0430, then woken the still-slumbering Klingon beside her. Jadzia had grumbled as she yanked on her uniform, still annoyed at the captain for not letting her come on this mission. Worf then gave her a long and useless lecture about how Nog was ready to pilot on his own and should be given a chance, and how she was the only officer that wasn't absolutely necessary and therefore she was the one who should command DS9 in Sisko's absence. Their voices as they stood outside the Defiant's airlock were crystal-clear in Ezri's head as the door to her former home drew near.  
"I wish I was going with you."  
"You are. In here."  
"I love it when you get romantic." Here it was. There was no turning back now. She tapped the door controls, only to find that Sisko had locked the door again after he exited. In a low voice, the Trill commanded,  
"Computer, override door lock."  
"Authorization required," the computer's feminine voice retorted.  
"Authorization Dax-fifty-four-alpha." She stepped quickly in as the doors parted, and was assaulted with such a powerful mental torrent of emotions and memories that she had to grab hold of a table for support. Just being in this room made her feel as if she were Jadzia again. How wonderful it had been to come home to the place she shared with the one person who could make things all right again after a day under wartime conditions. To just curl up in Worf's arms and forget about everything except him. Next to him, she had been sheltered behind a great wall, through which nothing could penetrate. Jadzia and Worf each had been totally able to deal with stress on their own with sheer willpower, but it was so much easier knowing that you could go to someone who understood what you were going through. Ezri wandered as if in a daze to the two bat'leths on the wall. Her hand drifted to rest on the textured leather grip of Jadzia's blade, on the top hooks. Impossibly, the grip still felt warm and slightly slick with sweat brought on by a fierce parrying session. She lifted the bat'leth into her own hands and somewhat clumsily took up a fighting posture, holding it in front of her. The weapon seemed to jerk in her grasp, and moved as of its own accord through the air. So familiar was the gesture that Ezri could have sworn that she'd heard the crashing impact as Worf's identical blade met hers. In her mind the Klingon twisted his bat'leth, prying hers from her grip. The weapon fell with a metallic clang to the floor, and Ezri backed up, as to not allow Worf's imaginary blade to press too deeply into her throat. When her body struck the solid bulkhead behind her, she forced herself to get a grip. There was no Worf, no bat'leth. Just Ezri (Just Ezri. Not Lela, Tobin, Emony, Audrid, Torias, Joran, Curzon, or Jadzia. Just Ezri.) and the shining blade at her feet. Shakily she reached down and picked up the bat'leth, replacing it on its display hooks. Intending to go straight to the desk and read the message, she started off across the room. Before she had taken five steps, the door to the bedroom caught Ezri's eye. The Trill stopped, regarding the door with a combination of longing and dread. There was no reason why she shouldn't go in. Sisko had ordered her to search Worf's quarters for hints, anything that might help them figure out where the Klingon had gone. But she hesitated. The room beyond that door was brimming with memories. Some of the best times of Jadzia's life had been spent with Worf there, some of the most intimate and meaningful conversations held under the covers. And the overwhelming remembrance of the powerful Klingon making love to her with such a fervent intensity that it left her trembling, stunned, in his arms afterward. He had held her then, equally drained of energy, and they had murmured words of love deep into the night and early hours of the morning. When asked in Ops on their duty shift why they seemed so tired, or where Jadzia had gotten that bruise at the base of her neck, they would just exchange glances and a conspiratorial smile. No one could understand how much in love they were. It seemed almost impossible to anyone who was not a close friend that a Trill and a Klingon could be so perfectly matched. Or, as Jadzia had sometimes joked, "perfectly mismatched." Yes, they were different. But those differences made their lives extremely interesting. Ezri inhaled deeply, let it out, and walked towards the bedroom door. Just as she decided she wasn't going to do this after all, the motion sensors detected her and the door slid aside. That first glimpse in was all she needed. The Trill had moved inside before the door even retreated all the way into the wall. How many times had she entered this room as Jadzia, wearing a low-cut, provoking nightgown? She looked down, expecting to see a tall, firm, shapely body draped in a garment of the finest silk, but was confronted only by her shorter, less pronounced figure, clad in the usual modest Starfleet uniform. The door whisked shut at her back, sealing her in with the emotions of another lifetime.  
  
The exhausted prisoners collapsed with sighs of relief and sobs of pain when Molina finally announced that they were stopping for the night. Worf's muscles ached as well, but he didn't let it show as he settled onto the ground with the others. They had been forced to walk briskly the entire day in the sweltering heat with only one short break, covering at least fifteen kilometers. The Klingon had been able to keep up easily, as he was in peak physical condition. Others had not been so lucky. The Deltan, for instance, had been lagging behind about seven kilometers back. A Jem'Hadar had noticed this continuing for a while and dragged him off into the brush. A muffled, begging cry was the last thing Worf heard from him before the whine of a phaser rifle silenced him forever. A Bajoran man slumped nearby, awkwardly holding a sniffling young girl in his lap while he peeled off his shoes, exposing his blistered, oozing feet to the night air. Looking at the faces of the people around him, Worf felt slightly guilty that he was able to withstand this physical torment when they were not. The treacherous Molina hovered a short way off, supervising the assembly of his tent. As the Jem'Hadar didn't require sleep, they stationed themselves at regular intervals around the tired captives, sinking back somewhat into the trees so they would be concealed. The Cardassian and Romulan guards were given blankets and went further up the path to sleep in peace, away from the pitiful, pleading wails of the imprisoned group. Gradually the noise died as the people realized that this might be their only chance to rest. They began to settle in, oblivious of the dirt and the chilly air. Worf shivered despite his efforts not to exhibit fatigue. Right now he would have given his arm for a Starfleet- issue insulated blanket. Or the warmth of another body.... Suddenly the people around him, their muffled sobs, their bleeding and bruised faces-it all seemed to fade. / Worf hated the cold. That's exactly what this Soukara night was, though- downright brisk. He coughed slightly and gave an involuntary shudder. But he was Klingon. A little cold wouldn't stop him from completing their mission. Something touched his arm suddenly, startling him. Jadzia Dax smiled as she tucked an insulated blanket around his broad shoulders.   
"Oh, let's not stand on pride, shall we? Trills don't like the heat and Klingons don't like the cold. There's no shame in admitting it." She pressed herself against his back, wrapping her arms snugly around his neck. He looked at her gratefully and returned her smile. She always seemed to read his mind at times like this.   
"Thank you."  
"You're welcome." The heat from her body was being transferred into his. Worf shuddered again, not from the cold this time but from adoration towards Jadzia. She felt it and lightly stroked the side of his face.  
"So, how are you enjoying your honeymoon? Are you suffering enough?" He could tell the Trill was excited, despite the circumstances. They had agreed on Casperia Prime for their honeymoon destination on the way here, but unfortunately the trip would most likely have to wait until the war was over.   
"Almost." She raised an eyebrow, something she must have acquired from a Vulcan friend or teacher in a former life.  
"Is there anything I can get for you?" He decided to attempt a joke.  
"More pain, less cold." To Worf's relief, Jadzia laughed and hugged him tighter.  
"I don't know why that's funny, but it is." They sat quietly, enjoying the warmth from the portable heater, until a howl broke the silence. His beautiful parmach'kai looked up quickly.   
"Mating call?" The Klingon confirmed it with a nod and a glance in the direction from which it had come.   
"500 meters. That way." Another howl answered the first then, and Jadzia observed,  
"That didn't take long."  
"300 meters." In a moment, the two distant animals' howls merged together. The Trill sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.  
"Another happy couple." / Worf realized he had his hands clenched around a tree root and was squeezing it so hard that his knuckles were turning white. Cold as it was, beads of sweat were rolling down his face. What had just happened? All the people around him had seemed to disappear, and he had been taken back to the earlier Soukara mission with Jadzia. He'd never recalled memories quite as vivid and lifelike as that one. He had actually thought he was with his wife again, enjoying a rare moment of solitude.  
Looking around shakily, the Klingon was relieved to see that the other prisoners were sleeping and hadn't noticed him clutching the root in shock. He lay back and stared up at the stars through a gap in the trees overhead. They bore a resemblance to Trill markings that he might not have noticed if thoughts of Jadzia hadn't been weighing so heavily on his mind. Along with his parmach'kai's face came another image, this one not at all fondly remembered. Gul Dukat's all-too-familiar leer. Worf despised being a captive, not because he feared for his life, but because by dying he would never get the chance to avenge his magnificent Jadzia's pointless murder. Dukat was out there somewhere. The universe was indeed vast, but there were only so many places he could hide. The Klingon didn't care if he was searching for the rest of his life. If he ever got away from this eccentric cult and back to Starfleet, he would resign if necessary and seek out Dukat, ending his life as brutally as the Cardassian had taken Jadzia's such a short time ago. Worf had had a good portion of his life ahead of him to spend with his wife. Their children remained unborn, certain beauty locked away forever, unreachable, inside her lifeless body. The Trill's was an existence that had been unique. She'd had so much she could have passed on to their son or daughter, as did he. The Klingon profoundly deplored that he'd been absent for most of Alexander's childhood, and had been hoping to get a second chance to be a good parent. A baby would have been a challenge, a test of their endurance, mental and physical commitment, and above all, their ability to communicate and agree what was best for their child. A challenge, yes, but one both he and his wife had looked forward to with great anticipation. Even as the life slipped from Jadzia's body she had spoken of the thing she wanted most: a child, a creation born of love and sacrifice, a seal to the bond she shared with Worf as husband and wife. Now, because of that bastard Dukat's interference, that would never come to be. In Worf's mind, the Cardassian was destined to pay a price. The ultimate price.   
  
A knock on the Master's chamber door roused him from the trance state in which he murmured his prayers.   
"Enter," he called softly, not rising from his kneeling position. The door squeaked open, and in his periphery, he saw Kolara glide in and place a tray containing a steaming cup and a data PADD on a table.  
"Your tea, Master."  
"Thank you, my child. You may go." The young Bajoran bowed respectfully and backed out of the room. He remained on his knees for a little while longer before making some reverent gestures to end his prayers and getting up. The chair beside the table was his favorite. He sank into it gratefully and picked up the cup, gingerly sipping the hot liquid. The herbal tea was delicious, as it always was when Kolara prepared it. Now to see if the information this PADD held would give him as much satisfaction. The Master scanned the small screen. The message from his personal servant Rek informed him that Elij was on Soukara and had reported in just now, apologizing for being delayed and promising to arrive back at Bal'gurna with the new recruits in 36 hours. The next line of text made the Master's eyes widen and the teacup drop from his hand. The tea splattered on the rug under the chair, leaving a stain that most likely would not come out easily. But what did a tiny spill matter? For Rek's message brought him the most wonderful news he'd heard in a long time. The recruitment team had with them the person he'd specifically requested. He hadn't really expected for them to bring him back, not this time at least. This particular man was deeply involved in the war with which the residents of Bal'gurna tried very hard not to participate in, so it should have been hard to gain access to him. The Master had stressed the importance of this man's presence as the construction of his holy city neared completion, even though he hadn't explained why. After all, the Pagh'Wraiths themselves had told him in a vision that he was not to rule Bal'gurna alone. He was to choose someone to rule with him; someone who fully understood the love and power of the Pagh'Wraiths as well as he did and was willing to make great sacrifices for them. The man he had selected was perfect for the position. The Master had been harboring some doubt that he would be able to bring his coadjutor to Soukara, but now he was actually here, a day and a half's journey from the city he was destined to rule! Had his message gotten through? Had this man come on his own and posed as a more unimportant worker for security reasons? Or had he been taken against his will- for the moment, anyway-, not fully comprehending yet why he was needed? Trembling with excitement, he ran to his shrine and dropped to his knees, thanking the Pagh'Wraiths over and over again, feverish with joy over this unexpected turn of events. He would not disappoint his glorious gods. Never.   
  
Ensign Prak'vei and Rom were hovering a little too close for comfort at Chief O'Brien's back. Granted, the central core was small and didn't have much room to move, but there was enough empty space on the other side for the Vulcan and the Ferengi. O'Brien tried to hide his annoyance as he inquired,  
"Rom, where's that relay?" He heard Rom fumbling with the case behind him.   
"Coming right up, Chief!" Something he hoped had been the stubborn latch snapped, then the master differential relay was placed carefully in his outstretched hand.  
"Here you go!" Rom may have appeared clumsy at first glance, but the Ferengi was actually one of the best engineers he knew. Delicate objects like the relay were safe with him. O'Brien turned to the open panel and exposed computer circuitry, reaching inside slowly and carefully as to not bump anything, such as the life-support controls or something minor like that. There was a dark, empty space where the original relay had been. The new one fit perfectly, as they were exact duplicates. Stretching his arm back again, he was surprised when a flux coupler appeared instantly in his hand. The chief smiled to himself, grateful for Prak'vei's efficiency. There was a smaller relay next to the one he'd just maneuvered into place. The targeting relay, which when connected to the weapons system, composed the station's defense systems and consisted of the phasers and torpedoes. When O'Brien touched the tip of the tool to the side of the weapons relay, it glowed and began to hum softly as it interfaced with the smaller targeting component. So far, so good. The connection to the main computer was on the other side. When activated by the flux coupler, it lit up like the star on a Christmas tree. O'Brien waited to withdraw his hand from the innards of the station before grinning and making a fist.  
"Yes!" Handing the flux coupler back to Prak'vei so that the young Vulcan could replace it in the tool kit, he tapped his comm badge.  
"O'Brien to Ops." Nog's voice answered him,  
"Yes, Chief?" Nog was another superb officer on this station, not too far past being a child himself. He shook his head in amazement. They're coming so young these days! It made him long for his Academy years, back when the war was nonexistent and the Dominion was still locked away in the Gamma Quadrant.   
"We're finished here. The weapons systems should be online again."  
"They are," reported Nog.   
"Run a diagnostic, then have someone beam out an empty crate from one of the cargo bays and use it for target practice," ordered O'Brien, motioning Rom and Prak'vei towards the conduit that led to the less confining Habitat Ring corridors. Unexpectedly, Captain Sisko's voice floated from his comm badge.  
"Why don't you come up and do the honors yourself, Chief? Ensign Nog should be done checking your work over by the time you get here." He flung himself into the narrow tunnel, eager to test the repaired weapons and wishing his two assistants would crawl faster.  
"Aye, sir! I'd be glad to. O'Brien out." When they were in the corridor, Rom sealed up the conduit panel, while Prak'vei headed home, as his shift was over. The chief, meanwhile, hurried up to Ops. Kira, at the transporter console, saw him enter and worked her controls. The main viewscreen suddenly displayed a golden beam of light, which metamorphosed into a bulky gray Starfleet-issue storage case. Sisko appeared at his side as he hopped up to Tactical.  
"Give it all you've got." All eyes in the command center of DS9 were fixed on the image, surrounded by sparkling stars. Holding his breath, O'Brien locked the crate on the sensors, then launched a photon torpedo. A glimmer of energy streaked through space before them like a comet, then his target exploded, eliciting cheers from everyone in Ops. He grinned with the others, immensely relieved. Now that the torpedoes worked again, he knew he wasn't the only one who would feel a lot better if the Dominion decided to pay them a visit.   
  
Ezri lay, eyes closed, on the bed that she had shared with Worf not long ago. Any wisps of individuality she might have possessed were gone; Jadzia's memories and emotions had completely taken over her body. She felt the Klingon's strong arms envelop her from behind, and leaned back against him with a smile. When she raised a hand drowsily to stroke the side of his face, warm skin and muscle met her caress. She was no longer aware that this was in her head; she knew only the joy of being with her husband again, being able to touch him, to tell him how much she loved him. To Ezri- or was it Jadzia now? - it was like a thirst-quenching glass of water after a decades-long drought. She had desperately needed this, hadn't realized how painful it would be to be away from Worf until he was actually out of reach. The Trill was unaware of the tears slipping down her flushed cheeks as she breathed,   
"I love you! I love you so much! I'm sorry I left you, but everything's going to be fine now, I'm back and I love you. Just hold me. I missed you so much. I love you, Worf. Worf..." Ezri moaned his name into the silence of the room, sobbing now, clutching the pillow. Burying her face in the material, she inhaled the fragrance so unique to her parmach'kai, that overpowering, indescribable scent that made her shudder with emotion. In the back of her mind she also sensed the sweet, unique essence that Worf had savored about Jadzia. Suddenly she couldn't stand it anymore. She needed to see his face and gaze deeply into his dark brown eyes. Insanity would be inevitable if she couldn't kiss his lips, feeling again his demanding but sometimes surprisingly gentle touch. Rolling over, she gasped and sat bolt upright when confronted with the empty side of the bed. No! Where had he gone? Not when she had been so close, dammit, so tauntingly close to being in heaven once more! "Worf! Where... no! Come back!" she screamed, torn with frustration and despair. Ezri caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room then. The woman she saw was not Jadzia after all, but a shaking girl, arms wrapped around herself and tears pouring down her feverish face. She whimpered and reached out for something to steady herself. The Trill's groping hand latched onto the nightstand. Something brushed the tips of her fingers and made her look down. When her eyes dropped, they met the elated grins of Worf and Jadzia as they posed for their wedding portrait, holding each other and looking like they would be content never to let go. Ezri turned away from it and collapsed back on the bed, sobbing as if it had been her heart that was shredded the day that the two of them were separated forever.  
  
Molina Elij had the prisoners up and walking again before dawn. No one complained to his face; they were too afraid of falling to the same fate as the Human and Deltan from the day before. Molina was a hard one to figure out, thought Worf as he marched through the jungle in the middle of the ragged procession. He seemed almost Vulcan sometimes, hiding his emotions and keeping an outer calm. But when he was angry, he had the terrifying ferocity of any Klingon, not hesitating to injure or kill if something didn't go his way. Worf became aware of sweat trickling annoyingly down his face and dripping into his eyes, which were already stinging from lack of sleep. Soukara nights may have been cold, but the days were hot enough to roast you alive, especially in a layered Starfleet uniform. The grade under his feet seemed to be getting steeper, as if they were climbing a mountain. As the air gradually got thinner over the next couple of hours, that proved to be correct. Worf smiled to himself at the irony of the situation. He and Jadzia- well, he at least- had been considering mountain climbing expeditions for their honeymoon destination. But his temporary good humor vanished when five Bajorans were beaten when they begged for water. Molina had seen to their punishment, explaining first that if water was absolutely necessary, the Pagh'Wraiths would provide it. The Klingon was surprised when he heard this. He had thought Molina was carrying a supply of water for himself and denying the prisoners a drink. Apparently, though, he was suffering with them. That tiny display of honor was the only thing that kept Worf from attempting to kill him. At about what he guessed to be 1400 hours, they came upon a lake, and word traveled back through the sweaty line that they were stopping to rest. Molina drank first, then the guards, then the captives. There was a general stampede towards the sparkling lake. Dropping to their knees, the people drank greedily, then were stricken with instant cramps as the water hit their deprived digestive systems. Most vomited it back up, others lay writhing with pain, clutching their stomachs. Worf wisely cupped the water in his hands and sipped slowly, letting his body accept it. After most of the prisoners had managed to keep some of the precious liquid down, they pushed forward again. In about another hour, they were slowly filing past a fallen log when the Klingon stumbled and fell against a tree, a strange sensation throughout his entire body. At first he thought it was his stomach objecting to the ice-cold pond water, but- / Worf, becoming contentedly warmer by the minute, sat with Jadzia, her arms wrapped around him from behind. The two of them listened to the pair of animals baying somewhere in the forest. He began to speak.  
"When I was a boy, my father used to take my brother and me on camping trips in the Ural Mountains. Every night we would listen to the wolves howling in the distance. Nikolai was afraid of them, but I would lay in my tent for hours just listening. I remember being seized by the urge to just rip off my clothes and run into the night and live in the forest and become something...wild." Jadzia smiled knowingly and touched his face again. She loved that about him, loved the times when his true, fierce Klingon nature would emerge in his words, the way he acted with total, reckless abandon. You are wild, parmach'kai, she thought. The animals howled again, further off.  
"He must have been rejected," the Trill observed. "He's moving away." Good, she thought with satisfaction. Now I can have Worf all to myself without fear of interruption. The female animal shrieked a thoroughly displeased noise. "She's not happy," Jadzia said, starting to feel a bit of animalistic lust herself. But that mood was instantly crushed when Worf's head jerked up to peer in the opposite direction. Sensing something was wrong, she sat up straight and clutched his shoulders. "What? They're getting further away, aren't they?"  
"Yes, but it is because something is coming. And it is close!" Starfleet training instantly kicked in. Both Jadzia and Worf sprang out of cuddle mode and snatched up their few supplies, throwing them behind a fallen log. Grabbing their phaser rifles, they leapt behind the log themselves and lay still, watching the forest for any signs of what was guilty of producing the noise. Normally they would have used their tricorders to scan for it, but they couldn't here because the Dominion sensors would detect them. Whatever it was, it was big. Worf had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach, and his fingers itched to pull the trigger of his weapon. His worst suspicions were confirmed when three armed Jem'Hadar soldiers stepped into the clearing where they had been sitting just a few moments earlier. As he observed them, he realized that the direction they were walking would bring the soldiers right on top of them! A glance at Jadzia and a quick nod made the decision. As one, they positioned their phasers in the holes in the log and fired. Not prepared for the assault, two soldiers went down under the phaser blasts, but the third began firing wildly. Most of his shots hit only trees, but one bolt of energy maneuvered impossibly through a gap in the log and struck Jadzia in the stomach. The Trill curled up in a fetal position, arms wrapped around her midsection, gasping with shock. Worf, caught up in the heat of battle, sprang to his feet and hurled his mek'leth at the Jem'Hadar, catching him in the chest and driving him back against the tree. Only when the soldier had slid to the jungle floor, his last breath a gurgling exhalation of blood, did he notice his parmach'kai clutching her abdomen, her breathing raspy, struggling not to scream from the pain. Agonized whimpers escaped her lips as she looked up at him, pleadingly. "Jadzia!" The Klingon dropped to his knees beside her, fumbling in the medical bag for a hypospray. She turned her head sideways so he could press the end of the hypo to her neck. The painkiller took effect almost immediately, and she slumped back against the log, hands pressed against her stomach. Worf eyed the blood seeping between her fingers with trepidation while he commanded, "Lie still!"  
"I think I can do that." He used a small medical tricorder, the power output of which would not be detected by the Dominion, to determine the extent of damage from the phaser blast. "Can I have the good news first?" Worf looked up from the readouts.  
"No vital organs were damaged." Jadzia lifted her arm to allow him to place a bandage inside her uniform, directly against the wound.  
"And the bad news?"   
"The disruptor burst left an anticoagulant in your system."  
"So you can't stop the bleeding."  
"No." She groaned slightly and struggled to get to her feet.  
"Well, I must not have taken the whole burst. I'm not hemorrhaging that bad yet. Just keep me pumped full of painkillers, and let's be on our way." Worf couldn't believe what he was hearing. Jadzia must be in shock from the wound. He caught her arm.  
"Moving could make the bleeding worse!" The Trill's eyes were pure, determined fire when he met them with his own.  
"Staying here isn't an option!" insisted Jadzia. "Someone's going to come looking for them when they don't check in, and I'd rather take my chances on foot. You ready?" Sensing his hesitation, she reached out and grabbed the Klingon's arm, squeezing it hard. "You ready?" she repeated. Worf wanted to tell her how amazing a woman she was for being strong enough to take a disruptor burst in the stomach and walk away not five minutes later, but had a feeling this wasn't the time.  
"Ready," he answered. His lovely wife nodded resolutely.   
"Let's go." She only needed to support herself on his arm for a moment before she was on her feet and leading the way into the woods. Worf looked back, and his gaze fixed worriedly on the huge amount of blood that had pooled where she'd been sitting. Jadzia was going to make it. She just had to. / Worf leaned against the tree, his fingernails digging deeply into its rough bark as if he were holding on for his life. His head and his thoughts were spinning uncontrollably, even though he was standing absolutely still. That persistent Romulan was back with his weapon.   
"Keep walking, Klingon." Worf, trying to look like he hadn't just had one of the most startling and disturbing experiences of his life, hurriedly began to move along with the line. By the hand of Kahless! This was the place. The log, the clearing- they were passing the area where Jadzia had been shot by the Jem'Hadar patrol! He hadn't recognized it at first. After all, one fallen tree looked like another. But then something in the back of his mind had caused him to remember in exquisite detail the events of that night. Worf trudged on in a daze, seeing nothing but the pain on Jadzia's face as the Jem'Hadar's disruptor burst pierced her body, and then the sadness in her eyes as she lay, helpless, on Julian Bashir's surgical biobed with an emptiness in her abdomen and in her soul.  
  
Sitting on the edge of the bed, arms on her knees and her head in her hands as if she were trying to fight back nausea, Ezri thought she was losing her mind, and it scared her. She'd known it was going to be difficult to be a joined Trill, having to deal with the combined memories of multiple lifetimes, but never had she imagined anything like this. Jadzia's perspective had completely claimed her, pushing her own identity to the back of her mind and resurfacing as the woman who had slept in this bed with Worf's arms around her. It was going to be nearly impossible to finish this assignment if Ezri let Jadzia take over every time she touched something in these quarters! Ezri found herself at first blaming Ben Sisko for all this. He was the one who'd sent her in here to confront all these emotions and suppress old feelings so she could read Dukat's message. But then she realized it was no one's fault, not even her own. The Trill took several deep breaths to calm her trembling hands and stood up. A sigh of relief escaped her when she was standing in the living room once more and the bedroom was just a memory. Sisko had left the message display on the screen of Worf's comm panel. No sacrifice is in vain. You'll understand soon. Ezri shook her head, baffled. The words evoked no remembrance of anything Worf had told her either now or as his wife. Then she reread it. You'll understand soon. That almost sounded like a threat. Alarm klaxons went off in her head. What did Dukat want Worf to understand? She wished she knew. The past few months had been confusing enough without adding all this to it.   
  
Molina Elij crouched over the tiny portable communications unit erected in his tent. Outside it was nighttime. Bugs chirped somewhat comfortingly, and from a far-off hillside a native Soukara animal let out a long, curling howl. Tapping the controls, he sent a message to Bal'gurna. He folded his hands in front of him when the Master's face appeared on the screen of the comm unit.   
"It is good to hear from you, Elij. How are things progressing?"  
"Very well, Master. We are expecting to arrive back at Bal'gurna sometime tomorrow afternoon if all goes according to plan." The Master smiled, his satisfaction evident. Molina wondered if this success would bring about any future benefits for him. Wisely, he did not voice the thought. His wandering attention was called back to the screen.  
"See that it does. Now about the Klingon. He is still with you, I trust?"  
"Of course."  
"Listen to me very carefully, Elij." The Master leaned forward, his face filling the small screen. "It is absolutely imperative that he be brought to Bal'gurna safely. Do you understand?" The Bajoran nodded.  
"Yes, Master." He paused. He had to admit he shared the curiosity of many of his subordinates, and decided to risk a question.  
"Why is this Klingon so important? If I may ask, of course, Master." Bad move. The face of the man on the screen contorted with surprise, then anger.  
"No, you may not. You forget your place, Elij." Molina was terrified, and he knew it was showing. He dreaded the times when the Master was angry. His fury was demonic and his temper vicious. He had seen a few unfortunate souls be executed for what in his mind were absurd reasons. After watching them be put to death, which happened neither quickly nor painlessly, Molina knew that he must always stay on the Master's good side. Worst of all, his eyes would latch onto you with that disturbingly omniscient gaze of his that made you feel naked, all secrets exposed for the taking. Then they would cloud over for a split second. When he blinked and looked at you once more, his eyes would be red. And it wasn't just a reflection of the light or an elaborate optical illusion. They would be a pure, deep red, the color of freshly spilled blood. It seemed like the Pagh'Wraiths themselves had possessed his body and were passing judgment on you through the Master. Molina swallowed hard.  
"I beg of you, forgive me, Master! It was foolish of me to think that I, a mere servant, could ever be worthy of your true divinity! Please overlook the inappropriate curiosity I have displayed! The Klingon is your business and yours alone!" With that, the Bajoran groveled in front of the screen, pressing his face to the floor of the tent. He was immensely relieved when he heard the Master speak over the pounding of his heart in his ears.  
"Get up, my child. The Pagh'Wraiths have forgiven you. But I think it would be a wise idea to perform a penance when you return to Bal'gurna, to ensure that you remain good in their eyes."  
"I will take your advice, Master." Molina sat up. "Do you require any additional information from me?"  
"No, that will be all. I look forward to your return." With that, the connection was severed. He sighed and turned off his own comm system.  
  
Worf awoke in the middle of the night from yet another sweat-drenched nightmare, his hand flying down to his boot to make sure the mek'leth was still concealed there. When his hand closed on the leather-wrapped handle, he felt better and was able to relax as much as possible, taking into account the fact that he was laying in the dirt surrounded by the other huddled, snoring lumps that were his fellow prisoners.  
The perspiration was cold on his skin, and he shivered convulsively. He hadn't had such realistic nightmares since he was a child, and even then they hadn't had such a lasting effect on him. Now that he was an experienced adult, he should have been able to overlook such things. But ever since he'd been captured by the Pagh'Wraith cult, he'd had the same recurring dream every night. The same one, in fact, that had caused him to come on this crazy mission of vengeance in the first place. He relived the moment of Jadzia's death over and over again, and every time after she had gone Dukat would appear and ridicule their relationship, provoking Worf to attack. The dream always came to a frustrating end at that point, with him awakening just as his hands were about to crush the Cardassian's throat. The Klingon glanced at Molina's tent right at the moment the lightstick glowing behind the fabric walls was deactivated, and the woods were flooded in darkness. He scanned the clearing for the Jem'Hadar guards. They themselves could not be seen, but every once in a while a stray beam of moonlight would push through the thick tangle of trees and reflect off one of their phaser rifles. So the masters of camouflage were there, even if they weren't visible. Escape would be impossible tonight. The Klingon rolled onto his stomach and lay his head down on his arms, wishing Jadzia was there to rub the aches out of his back. It seemed like he'd just closed his eyes when he was opening them again to see that it was daylight. A soft, refreshing rain was falling. The Jem'Hadar were gone, and in their place were the Cardassians and Romulans, back from whatever secluded spot they'd slept in that night. The people on the ground were sitting up. As soon as they saw a female Bajoran guard with a red armband approach them carrying a large bag of something, they began to clamor and reach towards her. She made an expression of distaste as a child's dirty hand latched onto her pants. She was handing out food, Worf soon realized, the first food they had been given since the beginning of their hike into the wilderness. The ration packets were tossed to the prisoners like a zookeeper feeding animals. The Klingon picked up two packets that landed near him. The labels were printed, strangely, in ancient Bajoran, which he could not read. He was about to tear one open when he heard a cry from behind him. Turning, he saw the female guard retreating. A young Bajoran woman held a squirming, whimpering child and was talking softly to him.  
"I know, Rilo. Mother's hungry, too. But don't worry, the nice people will bring us more food later." From the look in her eyes, Worf could tell that she had her doubts about getting food, and to her, their captors were anything but nice. But why frighten a child as small as this? He stood up and walked to them, holding out the food packets.   
"Take these. Your child needs nourishment, as do you." The Bajoran looked at him, startled, as the boy grabbed a packet from his hand and struggled to tear it open. Clearly she hadn't expected him to share, seeing as the other prisoners were too desperate for food to consider anyone but themselves. Then she smiled gratefully, an expression Worf hadn't seen in days.  
"Thank you! May the Prophets bless and protect you!" He nodded awkwardly, not sure how to respond to a blessing from gods he didn't believe in. The young mother opened the package of food for her child, who filled his cheeks until they were bulging.   
"My name is Teldar Lanya. This is my son, Rilo."  
"Commander Worf." Her gray eyes scanned his smudged uniform.  
"You're Starfleet?"  
"Yes." Lanya stared at him as if he were one of the Prophets himself.  
"Then you can get us out of this! You've got to help us escape from this Pagh'Wraith cult. I don't want my baby surrounded by evil!" Worf hesitated at the sudden added burden thrust on his shoulders.  
"Where is your husband?" Lanya shifted Rilo to her other hip.  
"On Bajor, thank the Prophets. I was visiting a friend on Vulcan with Rilo. Our transport home was hijacked by these people." She threw a glare towards the guards. Shaking her head, she murmured,  
"Roben doesn't even know we've been captured. We're not supposed to get back until tomorrow." A tear slipped down her olive-skinned cheek. "I just want to see him again one more time before I die." The Klingon laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.  
"You are not going to die." He looked at Rilo, happily chewing, and saw for a moment a dark-skinned child with even darker neck spots and forehead ridges. "And neither is your child." Lanya smiled.   
"Thank you, Commander." Suddenly, Worf felt uneasy. Lowering his voice, he said,  
"It would be wise if you addressed me by name rather than rank." The Bajoran's face was blank, not understanding.  
"What for?"  
" I do not want to attract undue attention."  
"Oh. All right." A voice booming over the crowd temporarily halted their conversation.  
"Move out!" Molina bellowed. "Our goal is to reach Bal'gurna by this afternoon." Lanya grimaced as she tucked the remaining ration packet in a pouch at her belt. They began to walk, letting themselves be swept along with the rest of the prisoners. Seeing as there were no guards in the immediate vicinity to prevent speaking, she asked, "Why are we going to this...Bal'gurna? What is it?"  
"I am uncertain." Actually, he had a couple of unpleasant ideas, but didn't want to frighten Rilo. Trying to explain, he gestured with his eyes towards the boy, who let out a huge yawn. She nodded, getting the point. Thankfully, Rilo was asleep within minutes. They weren't able to talk then because a Cardassian guard fell into step beside them and remained there like a parasite for half an hour. When he finally moved off, Worf was about to speak when Lanya's stomach gave a noisy rumble. She chuckled.   
"Excuse me." Awkwardly, she balanced her son on one hip and struggled to retrieve the rations from her bag. The Klingon noticed the difficulty she was having holding the child and working the clasp holding the bag shut.  
"Would you like me to take him?"  
"Thanks." The Bajoran allowed him to take the slumbering child and rest him against his shoulder. Without bothering to read the label on the rations, she tore the package open and scooped out some of the contents with her fingers. She fought not to spit it out, apparently not enjoying it as much as Rilo had.  
"Well, at least they're feeding us." On second thought, she offered the bag to him. "Want some?"  
"No, thank you."   
"Are you sure? You should eat something, keep your strength up." Worf smiled inwardly. This woman was obviously a good mother. Jadzia would have been a fantastic mother to our baby.   
"I will be all right." She shrugged and nibbled daintily.   
"What were you going to say about Bal'gurna before?" The Klingon didn't want to alarm her, but a closer look at her tanned face revealed a lattice of scars on her cheek, back near her ear. She must have been a Resistance fighter, even at her young age. She could handle the truth.  
"I am expecting it to be a labor camp. Or possibly a mass extermination site." Her expression didn't waver.  
"I've been through my share of those. I never thought I'd see another one again after the Occupation was over." Lanya paused. "You know what makes me so angry about this whole thing? Them." She pointed to a stony-faced Cardassian guard, marching silently, phaser raised. Now her eyes were set aflame with hatred. "I spend the better part of my life fighting for my freedom, so me and the rest of Bajor can live how we did before the Occupation. We finally drive the Cardassians off our world and have our old lives back, more or less, and can worship the way we want and let our children go out on the streets without fearing that they would be captured or shot down just for chasing a ball into the path of a self-important Gul. But now I'm a prisoner again, not just by the Cardassians but also the Pagh'Wraiths, the two most hated forms of life to us Bajorans." She shook her head. Her hand ventured out from the sleeve of her cloak to stroke her sleeping child's hair. "Most of all I hate that Rilo had to be dragged into this. He never had to experience the horrors of war or the mindless brutality of the Cardassians. I was hoping he could just grow up leading a normal, peaceful life. But now that's impossible." Seeing the way she was looking at Rilo, with undisguised adoration and sadness, Worf began to hand him back over, assuming she would want to take him into her arms. He and Jadzia had done the same thing after a particularly dangerous battle where the odds in their favor had been less than reassuring. They would just kind of melt into each other when it was all over, savoring the victory. Even if the battle had been lost, it was always a success to them when they both came out alive. He'd never actually expected that he'd have to go on, to win, without her at his side. Instead of reaching for Rilo, Lanya asked, "Would you mind terribly if I imposed on you to carry him for a little while longer?"  
"Not at all." In fact, Worf relished the chance to hold a child.   
"Thanks." The fire had vanished from her eyes as quickly as it had appeared. Now she was simply a young, frightened mother again, concerned only for the safety and well-being of her son. A smile flitted across her smudged face. "He was getting a little heavy. I'm not used to the exertion and the heat at the same time anymore." As they walked, Worf looked down at the sleeping boy he cradled in his arms, being careful not to jostle him with each step. Rilo's small weight against him was relaxing. It had been a long time since he had held anyone, even a Bajoran toddler. Again, the boy's smooth forehead seemed to sprout bony Klingon ridges, and dark brown spots appeared to materialize on his face and neck. Not for the first time or the last, he deeply regretted not being present for most of Alexander's childhood. Just because Alexander hadn't chosen right away to follow the path of a warrior didn't mean he wouldn't amount to anything. Now, his pride of his son increased daily, as did Alexander's prowess in being a soldier and carrying out his duties with honor. He felt he was ready to father another child, now having some experience and wanting to know more. And the areas of parenting in which he was a little bit shaky...well, Jadzia had enough knowledge for both of them.   
They stopped for water about an hour later. Bodies of water seemed to be rare on Soukara, but the ponds and streams that existed contained water of the finest quality, pure and untouched, sparkling like priceless diamonds. The rain had stopped, but a wet, heavy blanket of humidity hung in the air. There was no breeze, and in the stillness of the day distant sounds gradually became audible. A clank of metal on metal. A faint rumble, unidentifiable as of the moment. And occasionally voices, giving a shout or two and then fading. Worf sat on the bank, wanting to empty the sand from his boots but not able to, as he needed to keep the mek'leth concealed. Rilo still dozed in his arms. A short distance away, Lanya had produced a tiny, hollowed out gourd from under her cloak and was dipping it in the pond to fill it with the precious water. She came to sit next to him, and told him, as she pushed a cork into the mouth of the homemade canteen,  
"My father made this for me during the Occupation. It's held many things, from water to explosive charges." The Bajoran gave a wistful smile. "He was killed on a raid on a Cardassian warehouse, but this bottle has always been kind of a good luck charm for me. Its contents have kept me alive on many occasions." Suddenly a faint shout echoed in the distance. She tilted her head. "Did you hear that?" Worf nodded.  
"No doubt we are approaching Bal'gurna." Lanya had an interesting question.  
"Why are they making us walk all this way? Couldn't they have loaded us onto a transport or something?" The Klingon considered this. It hadn't crossed his mind, as he'd been preoccupied with other thoughts. The answer came to him almost immediately.  
"There is a Dominion base on Soukara that is equipped with a limited sensor array. It is possible that this cult wants to keep their presence unknown, but build their headquarters in an area inside the Dominion's sensor range. The sensors can detect large machinery and computers, but not organic matter. Therefore, ships cannot be taken into the forest, only people on foot. Molina or the guards may be carrying PADDs or communicators, but nothing larger or they would be instantly detected." Worf didn't mention how he knew all this, and hoped Lanya wouldn't ask. She didn't.  
"That makes sense," the Bajoran agreed. "I take it their weapons can't be detected either."  
"Correct." Her nose, already ridged, wrinkled further in concentration.  
"Then if they can't bring any heavy machinery or computers in here, Bal'gurna must be operating under primitive conditions. No replicators, no comm systems, just relying on the efficiency of its inhabitants to get things done." Her eyes met his. "Why does that not make me feel better about all this?" The Klingon knew what she meant. If Bal'gurna was a labor camp, the manual work was going to be a lot more difficult without the aid of machinery. Worf shifted Rilo so he lay more comfortably against his chest and said,  
"What is puzzling is why the cult wants to hide from the Dominion in the first place. If the Jem'Hadar and Cardassians are here, that indicates that they have an alliance, but the Bajorans and Romulans are not part of the Dominion." Lanya had the answer to that one. She took a swig of water from her gourd to moisten her throat before replying,  
"If they're going through all this trouble to hide, the Dominion must have shown some hostility towards them in the past. As for the Spoon-heads and Jem'Hadar being here- well, they must have some ulterior motive. Money, maybe. Promises of power, I don't know. But one thing's for sure: my people, even those who worship the Pagh'Wraiths, wouldn't be working side by side with the Cardassians unless there was a damn good reason." Another cry filled the silence; this time it was Molina's now-familiar "Move out!" The Klingon and the Bajoran got up, Lanya groaning as the movement put pressure on the blisters on her feet. The gourd disappeared back inside her cloak. Their conversation had stirred many thoughts; they walked and contemplated them. Suddenly Worf felt the child in his arms stirring. He looked down. Rilo gave a yawn and a stretch, doing an adorable mimicry of an adult waking from a restful slumber. His tiny eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, he frowned, disoriented, at the strange man carrying him.  
"What your name?" His voice was angelic, bearing none of the underlying hardness characteristic to so many Bajorans who had suffered through the Occupation. Worf smiled at the boy.  
"My name is Worf."  
"Oh." That was it. No further questions. No distress at waking up and finding himself in the arms of a strange Klingon in the middle of an alien jungle. Just an acknowledgment of Worf's answer, then back to sleep as if he'd never awakened. So trusting, apparently supposing that since the Klingon seemed to be his mother's friend, then he must be okay. A pang of grief pierced Worf's heart, along with a thread of envy.   
  
The new recruits were drawing nearer by the hour. The Master could feel it. Anxiousness unlike any he had ever felt gripped him as he sat rigidly at the table on his favorite balcony of the house high on the hillside. Kolara had brought him lunch, but it sat untouched and cooling in front of him. It was ironic, really. Not long ago he had been one of them. A simpler person, living unaware of the existence of the glorious Pagh'Wraiths. When they had revealed themselves to him, his life had been changed in so many ways. At one time he had cared only for himself and his people, but that all that was different now. He aspired passionately, as a better man looking up to a higher power, to help others, regardless of race, understand how much the Pagh'Wraiths cared for them. They had explained to him in a vision that since they wanted to rule the entire known universe, everyone inside that space must come to feel their love. But the Master was having a difficult time convincing his followers to open their hearts and accept the Pagh'Wraiths as their gods. When completed, Bal'gurna would be the first of many holy cities devoted entirely to worship. Many races would converge here, many people would be enlightened and accepted, and as their community grew, others would join them. The Master dreamt of loyal followers overflowing beyond the walls of his city, and more cities being constructed. For those who didn't believe that the Pagh'Wraiths genuinely cared for everyone- well, there would soon be the example of the Klingon. With his arrival, and eventually his shared rulership of Bal'gurna, their followers would come to see that everyone was welcome in the omniscient eyes of the Pagh'Wraiths. The Master stood and walked along the balcony with his hands in his sleeves. His mind was full of thoughts about the times to come; perhaps that was why he almost collided with his servant, Rek. The Bajoran cringed apologetically.  
"Excuse me, Master! If I was not so clumsy this would never have happened!" He dismissed it with a wave.  
"Never mind, Rek, the fault is mine alone. What is it you need?" He straightened up.  
"The new group of workers is entering the valley as we speak, Master."   
"Thank you. That will be all." Rek nodded and withdrew, and the Master hurried back to his chamber. There he donned a simpler cloak, and concealed his head in a loose hood. When he went down among the residents of Bal'gurna, those who weren't fortunate enough to have spoken directly with the Pagh'Wraiths, he hid his face, reserving a glimpse of his features for when he felt they were ready. Slipping out the back exit, he made his way down a little-used trail and into his city.   
  
The frustrated Trill wandered through the quarters that had not long ago been her own, looking for something, anything, that might help her figure out where Worf had gone or what Dukat's cryptic message meant. She went past the bat'leths without glancing at them, not wanting to have a recurrence of her earlier hallucination. Her eyes fell to the picture of Jadzia and Worf on the beach on Risa, and she picked it up gingerly, almost as if it might shatter in her hands. Gazing at it, Ezri felt a lump form in her throat. The photo had obviously been taken candidly, as no amount of posing could have produced such a spontaneous moment of love. The two of them stood on their favorite beach, where they had taken many midnight swims. The sun was just going down, spreading rich color across the sky. Jadzia, in one of her favorite purple dresses, was leaning her slender body against the Klingon's and laughing as Worf favored her with one of his rare smiles. Ezri felt Jadzia inside her, mourning that they had never gone on their honeymoon because of the damned war, and ultimately, Gul Dukat. Their marriage had held strong during the times they were away fighting, more often then not on different ships. They hadn't been able to spend nearly as much time together as they would have liked, which made every shared moment even more precious. Jadzia still longed to be on Casperia with Worf, to sleep curled in his arms at night and late into the morning, to go walking and dancing on the beaches, serenaded by the native music, to stand together on the balcony of their hotel room admiring the view of the ocean and the boats skimming the water. Ezri hurriedly replaced the picture on the table as she felt her individual mind start to be overtaken. Time to look somewhere else. Circling the room a few more times, she began to realize with an expanding sense of dread that the answer didn't lay out here, in the main part of the Klingon's quarters. If she really wanted to understand, if she really wanted to know where Worf had gone, she would have to bury her feelings and go back in the one place that held the most memories for her. The room where the memories had been beautiful at one time but were now intolerable. Steeling herself, Ezri faced the door to the bedroom and stepped inside before she could change her mind. It was dark. She announced in a quavering voice,  
"Computer, lights." The room was bathed in a bright, artificial glow. A glance around revealed that all was how she had left it. The Trill roamed around, picking up things and putting them down, having no insight whatsoever. Her own face appeared in Jadzia's mirror when she stepped in front of it. Studying herself, she looked past her reflection and saw something else. Or, rather, the absence of something else. She whirled around to confirm it, not entirely sure that her eyes weren't deceiving her. They weren't. The hook on which Worf's mek'leth had been so proudly displayed was empty. He had taken it with him. But why? He had a phaser, which was a more effective weapon. Mek'leths, bat'leths, d'k tahgs, and weapons of that sort were usually only used for ceremonial purposes and hand-to-hand combat, the Klingon had told his wife once. Something sparked in the back of Ezri's mind. Turning, almost mesmerized, she ran to the nightstand and fell to her knees, grabbing the wedding photo of Jadzia and Worf in their traditional red leather outfits. Every detail of their lives together, from the moment they first met in Quark's to their last minutes side by side in the infirmary, seemed to replay before her eyes in a second. And then she knew. In one great revelation, she was certain of where Worf had gone. Ezri wasn't sure exactly how she knew, but she did. "Oh, my god," she whispered, clutching the frame. "Oh, my god. He's going to kill Dukat."  
  
Metal clanged against rock clearer then ever now. Unfamiliar voices drifted through the thin air as the bedraggled group of prisoners struggled up what Molina had announced was the final hill. Or rather, mountain. The slope had escalated steeply over the last mile, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. As Worf trudged upward, chest heaving, he could see a bright light behind the treeline ahead, and then nothing. No more solid ground to walk on, just empty air. A few yards behind him, struggling to keep up and doing an admirable job of it, Lanya climbed with Rilo clinging to her back like a monkey. Only ten more paces...five...two...and then the Klingon was at the summit, gasping like a fish deprived of water and staring in amazement down into the lush green valley. The scene before him could have been striking, with the tops of the emerald-leafed trees that looked like a carpet of velvet, the huge sparkling lake that resembled a blanket of diamonds, and the rolling hills beyond. It almost could have been striking, if one ignored the numerous domed buildings thrust into the center of the wilderness. They formed two lines along one long, wide main street. Soukara's sun glinted off the odd metal plating on the roofs, reflecting a blinding light into Worf's eyes. He blinked and looked away, focusing his attention on the smaller buildings, which were constructed of simple brown and gray stone. A little way off from the main buildings were rows of even smaller structures, lined up like soldiers at attention. The mountains to either side of them were pocked with cave mouths. Naturally formed or not, Worf couldn't discern. Tiny figures, appearing as small as ants from this high up, moved around amidst the openings, some going in, some coming out, some pushing what looked like crudely constructed carts. Mining, perhaps? But mining what? Soukara wasn't rich in minerals as far as he knew. Now that he noticed them, there were people swarming all over the valley, in between the buildings and on top of them, near the caves, near the militaristic lineups of buildings, looking like a colony of busy insects. Built on the mountainside opposite where the prisoners stood, closer to the valley floor but still elevated enough to offer a splendid view, was a house, domed in the same metal plating as the other buildings. It appeared to have a single level, but was very long. If it had been a different color, it could have passed for a freighter attached to the rock face. A balcony the length of the house wrapped around it, and large windows lined the side facing into the valley. At Worf's side, Lanya drew in a breath as Rilo slid to the ground and came to stand between his mother and the Klingon.  
"I guess that's Bal'gurna."  
"It appears to be." Rilo pointed in delight at the domed buildings and laughed.  
"Shiny, Mother!" He tugged on her pants. "Bright an' shiny!" Lanya smiled down at her son.   
"Yes, it is." Molina stepped up to the front of the group and began to lead the way down the mountain. Lanya bent and hoisted Rilo onto her back again. The trip down was a lot easier than the hike up had been. After only an hour, they stood at a pair of tall wooden doors guarding the entrance to Bal'gurna. At first the patterns on the gates looked like random markings in the wood, but as he studied them Worf realized with a shudder that the carvings were flames. In fact, the entire fence stretching for miles around the city was covered in the same design. Molina bent and spoke briefly in an unfamiliar language into a comm panel. So they did have some technology here, but the comm system probably extended only to the other side of the gate. Anything more advanced would risk detection by the Dominion. With a creak, the massive gates slowly began to swing open. The Bajoran stood before them and faced the crowd of tired prisoners he'd led all this way.  
"My loyal followers," he proclaimed, beaming. "We have arrived. Some of you may have initial doubts, but you will soon see the glory of the Pagh'Wraiths!" A Bajoran man began to yell in protest.  
"We will never serve the Pagh'Wraiths! We would rather die!" A transformation came over Molina at the man's words. His smile vanished. His eyes hardened. Even his bright red hair seemed to burst into flame.   
"How dare you speak such words!" he hissed, sounding more like a snake than a person. "You are standing at the gates of Bal'gurna, the holy city! Consider your miserable self lucky that the Pagh'Wraiths didn't pass judgment on you and strike you dead on the spot." He gestured to the guards, who stepped forward, weapons raised. "Get them inside! Now!" Lanya clutched Rilo, the child too terrified to make a sound. As they filed into the gates, the group branched off in two directions. Men were forced to keep to the right, while women and children went to the left. Rilo gazed over his mother's shoulder at Worf as the three of them were separated. He never saw either of them again.  
The Klingon was awestruck as he followed the man in front of him down the main street that they had seen from their vantage point at the top of the mountain. The domed buildings were amazingly massive, and the stones out of which they were built appeared extremely heavy. Since there'd been no evidence of the presence of technology, aside from the comm system, they had to have been erected by hand. It must have taken months of labor to complete just one building! Labor...by whom? His question was answered when he saw a group of three Humans and two Bajorans trudge by, hauling carts full of stones up to the unfinished base of a building. Their clothes, which he supposed were prisoner's uniforms, were filthy and torn, as was the skin underneath. On the other side of the road, another group of people wearing identical uniforms toiled over a boiling pot on a fire, stirring it and occasionally adding a chunk of something to whatever was inside. As he walked, trailed by a Jem'Hadar guard, Worf found himself thinking back to when he'd been captive on a Dominion prison, the place where he'd first met General Martok. / As he lay on the bunk in the back of the runabout, his broken ribs aching and the cuts on his face stinging with the sweat that had dripped into them, Worf regretted that he hadn't been able to kill that last Jem'Hadar. At the same time, he thanked Kahless that he'd only been on the asteroid prison for a couple of days, unlike the unfortunate Doctor Bashir, who'd been incarcerated there for five weeks. Most of all, he was eager to see Jadzia again. There had been times when he was grappling with the soldier in the ring when he'd almost been overcome, almost allowed the Jem'Hadar to claim a better position and be able to snap his neck or crush his skull. But when times seemed desperate, all he'd needed to do was picture the face of his parmach'kai. The memory of her perfection gave him the strength he required to defeat his opponent. He thought about the lovely Trill now, imagined the smile her face would light up with when she saw him. Imagined his Klingon opera collection scattered all over her quarters.   
He didn't actually see Jadzia until after the operation in which Bashir had repaired the damage to his ribs and used a dermal regenerator to heal the abrasions and bruises on his face. She appeared in the doorway, looking like a heavenly vision to his tired eyes.   
"Hey, Worf!"  
"Jadzia!" He gestured towards her with a heavy hand, thankful that Bashir was nowhere to be seen. She needed no second invitation. Striding across the room, she stretched herself out on top of him and kissed him roughly. Her slender body against his was something he had missed during the nights at the prison camp. Even though they were not registered as living in the same quarters, most days one of them would pack a bag and spend the night. On a few occasions, Worf hadn't seen his own bedroom for a week at a time. Jadzia finally broke the kiss. Something in his eyes must have seemed uncomfortable, for she asked,  
"I'm not hurting you, am I? Your ribs aren't too sore for me to be like this?" The Klingon slipped an arm around her back.  
"I am fine. Do not move." She grinned, overflowing with relief and happiness at the outcome of this whole situation. When they'd been trying to destroy the wormhole, she'd half considered sabotaging the effort herself, so that Worf wouldn't be trapped in the Gamma Quadrant. It was unthinkable that she should have to do this, that she should have to be the one to seal her parmach'kai's fate by stranding him in Dominion territory with no way home...with no way back to her. All had worked out in the end, though, besides the fact that Cardassia was now a member of the Dominion. But that seemed about as serious as a hangnail, now that Worf was back. Looping her arms around his neck and shifting her weight so she wouldn't put pressure on his newly sutured ribs, Jadzia allowed herself to be swept away on a sea of intoxicated happiness as she studied the face of the Klingon on the chair beneath her. When she had met Worf, she had gained not only a lover but a lifelong friend, one who understood her almost as well as if he could see inside her mind and distinguish her individual thoughts. She trusted him with anything, from her deepest secret to her life. He respected her, seeing not only the beautiful woman that most men were enamored with, but also an honorable warrior to whom he gave his admiration. The Trill grinned.  
"I guess you're going to want your Klingon opera collection back." Now she had read his mind.  
"Intact," Worf instructed her with mock severity. She couldn't resist a quick tease.  
"More or less," she said, giving a coy, playful smile. In actuality, all the operas were accounted for and sitting in a pile on her nightstand, as she had taken special pains to keep them in one place. Their lips met again, and Jadzia hoped that Worf, with his recent injuries, would feel up to the "welcome home" celebration she had planned for that night in her quarters. / Up towards the front of the line, guards were running their hands over the prisoners' bodies to make sure they hadn't brought any concealed weapons into Bal'gurna. If they passed inspection, they were sent to relinquish the clothes they currently wore in favor of the drab worker's uniforms. A commotion from the side caught Worf's attention. What he saw when he turned to look shocked him. An attractive Klingon woman, the only other Klingon Worf had seen here so far, was struggling with a robust Cardassian guard. Another guard came up from behind and grabbed her. This only made her fight harder to get away. The second guard said something Worf couldn't hear, and after the first responded, the two of them began to drag the Klingon off towards an empty-looking building. Worf knew they weren't meaning to kill her. If they had wanted to do so, they would have shot her on the spot, since both carried disruptor pistols. No, it was obvious what they were planning to do. Prompted by a loyalty he suddenly felt for this woman, most likely because she was the only other Klingon in the same predicament as he, Worf sprang out of line and darted towards the woman and her assailants. Behind him, the guards shouted in surprise and fired their weapons in his direction. The other men in line to be searched dropped to the ground, covering their heads to shield themselves. The two Cardassians were too distracted to notice Worf, and he used that advantage, leaping on one guard and breaking his neck with a single effortless twist. As the body crumpled into a motionless heap, he got a good look at the Klingon woman's face. She wasn't a woman after all, but a girl, not more than seventeen years old. Her bright eyes, stricken with dread and rage, locked with his for a few seconds, conveying her surprise. Obviously she hadn't expected anyone to come to her rescue, let alone a fellow Klingon. The Cardassian holding her was as shocked as she was, for he released his grip momentarily. That was all the time she needed. The girl wrenched herself from his grasp, swinging around and landing an impressive blow with her fist into the guard's face. He stumbled but didn't fall, regaining his balance quickly and smashing the girl on the side of the head with his disruptor. She cried out, her hands flying to the gushing wound. Worf stepped forward to support her, but instead felt a phaser beam pierce him between the shoulder blades. He fell to the ground, sinking once more into darkness, unaware of the eyes that watched him fall.  
  
The Master, observing from behind the very building in which the Cardassian guards had planned to ravish the Klingon girl, clenched his fists in fury as the phaser beam flung her rescuer into the dirt. How dare they treat the future ruler of Bal'gurna like a common worker? Just shoot him down like an animal? Then he repented his thoughts; the fault was partly his. He'd told only Elij about the importance of this man, so he couldn't blame it on the rest of the sentries for not recognizing him as anyone out of the ordinary. The Klingon girl was another matter. Usually the Master didn't tolerate the unnecessary abuse of the workers, but in this case he'd allowed it to slip, knowing that his chosen future co-ruler would intervene. Besides, she's from Barrack 7, he thought wryly. It wouldn't hurt her to see who's really in charge. It was always necessary, before deciding to trust someone entirely, to put them in different situations where you could determine what their strengths were and whose side they were on. That was one of the few tactics he'd retained from his old ways, before he answered the call of the Pagh'Wraiths. Now, watching the Klingon's unconscious form being hauled out of the dirt and dragged off towards the temporary holding cells, he could correctly determine that for the time being his loyalties lay with his people. No matter. That would change. Off to one side, a Romulan who'd been searching the prisoners was angrily berating the surviving Cardassian, who snarled something in response, then turned and stalked away. Turning to the Klingon girl, who was trying to staunch the flow of blood from her ridged forehead, the sentry commanded only,  
"Get back to work." No "are you all right?" or anything that might have suggested he was vaguely concerned about her well-being. She glared at the Romulan before stalking off herself, not towards the construction sites but towards Barrack 7.  
Adjusting the hood around his face, the Master stepped out of the shadows of the building and followed behind the guards struggling to carry the enormous Klingon. When he was secure in the cell, they began the process of searching him for weapons or communication devices. Satisfied, the Master turned and walked down the street. The sounds of construction were pleasant to his ears; the almost melodious resonance of hammer striking rock was a constant reminder of the miracles that were being worked here. Bal'gurna, his holy city, was slowly but steadily rising temple by temple from the dust. To his right, a Ferengi, his face shaded partially by his huge ears, was poking mud into the cracks between two boulders that formed the base of the east wall of a building as a Cardassian woman maneuvered another rock into place. It was rare to find Cardassians here as prisoners. Most of the soldiers he'd come to- Cardassian, Jem'Hadar, and Romulan alike- had been happy to help him, after he'd made certain promises to them which he secretly had no intention of keeping. But his recruits didn't need to know that now. Later, the time would come when they would want him to fulfill his offer, and when that time came, he would rely on the faith he was sure they would develop in the Pagh'Wraiths. Many of his Bajoran guards had come voluntarily, already believing in the goodness of the true gods of Bajor. They didn't need convincing to offer their services; they already worshipped the Pagh'Wraiths with their entire beings. Everyone here would have that faith, eventually.   
To his left, a group of workers perched precariously on a rounded roof, reaching down to grasp a sheet of gleaming metal from the others who balanced on ladders, handing it up to them. The shoddy ladders, in turn, leaned against the solid side of the tall buildings. Sweat streamed off their faces as they squinted in the sun. The roofing of the temples was a grueling job, indeed, but someone had to do it, and the beauty that would spread across Bal'gurna would be worth their laborious toil. Then suddenly something went wrong. The sheet of metal slipped, cutting a deep path into the palms of the Bajoran man who'd been gingerly gripping its razor-sharp edges. He yelped in surprise and pain and dropped it. The metal fell with a thunk on its side- right on the Bajoran's foot. The man let out a scream of agony so high-pitched that the Master winced, both at the assault on his eardrums and in sympathy for the worker's pain. The severed foot fell from the roof first, spraying blood, and landed with a wet, sickening plop in the dirt, sending a dust cloud billowing into the air. The Bajoran, now unable to stand, had fallen to his stomach on the roof and was already beginning to stiffen in shock. The other men and women on the roof with him were yelling unintelligibly in panic and horror as they attempted to tie a makeshift tourniquet on their injured comrade's ankle. But the dead weight of the unconscious man was too heavy for them, especially on the smooth, slippery roof. Despite their efforts, the Bajoran slid down the curve of the dome and fell the distance to the unforgiving ground, hitting with an audible snap. His body convulsed once and lay still in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. The Master sighed heavily as guards came running from every direction to see what the commotion was about. The remaining workers on the roof had started to come down by way of the ladder, but were instructed to stay up and finish the job while the body of their fallen friend was removed. It was unfortunate whenever an accident like this occurred, but it was best just to move on, continue and remember that the Pagh'Wraiths have reasons for all things, even deaths that may seem pointless. Not wanting to risk being identified by the sudden crowd that had gathered, the Master crept silently away, back up the mountainside and in the rear door of the house from which he had come. From there he shed the worker's clothing and donned his own usual garments, going then to the balcony outside his chamber, where he would wait until Elij came to report in.  
  
Slamming the PADD he'd been perusing down on his desk, Captain Sisko bellowed,  
"What the hell do you mean, he's gone after Dukat?"   
"Keep your voice down, Ben," Ezri Dax hissed, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one in Ops had heard, despite the fact that the doors were soundproof. Her old friend had reacted to this news just as she'd suspected he would. His piercing gaze bored into her.  
"Are you sure?" Ezri sighed.  
"That's what I keep asking myself, but whenever I try to speculate on something else it all leads back to that one answer." Sisko was pacing now, visibly agitated. And he had good reason to be.  
"What is Worf thinking? Going off without permission, in the middle of a war, no less, and trying to assassinate one of the most powerful, not to mention sought-after, Cardassians alive? If he succeeds, the Dominion's hatred of the Federation will only escalate and give them further motivation for winning the war!" The Trill attempted to calm him down, saying,  
"I wouldn't count on the Dominion getting too riled up. From what you told me, Weyoun said they wanted him as a criminal. If Worf kills him, he'll just be eliminating their problem." The captain swung on her.  
"That's not the point, Old Man. The point is, Worf is only adding fuel to a dangerous situation, and it could explode at any moment. Either way, the Dominion wants Dukat, whether it's as one of their soldiers or a felon to put on trial. And if it's the latter- well, you know as well as I do that the Dominion is a very strong believer of loyalty within its ranks. They want to see to it that Dukat is disciplined- by them- for his actions. If anyone interferes, there's going to be hell to pay. We both know there's no love lost between Worf and Dukat, and it certainly would be easier for the Federation if Dukat weren't around. But since Worf acted without authorization, there's no guarantee that the Federation can stand up for him to the Dominion, if such need arises."  
"I don't think Worf wants to kill Dukat as a member of the Dominion, but rather as the man who killed his wife," Ezri said softly. "He doesn't care about Dukat's political standing. All he can think about is avenging Jadzia's death. As a Klingon, things like that come naturally to him. I doubt he gave any thought to the consequences but will be willing to face them when the time comes." She paused, remembering fondly. "You've seen his loyalty to her proven before. Remember Soukara?" Sisko studied his desk for a long time, silent. Then his head whipped up so suddenly Ezri jumped.  
"Why do you think Worf went to kill Dukat? What made you come to that conclusion?" The Trill was ready for this.   
"Well, he took his mek'leth with him. I remember him and Jadzia discussing that the most honorable way to kill someone was in hand-to-hand combat, especially if you're trying to avenge a death. So, along with his phaser, he chose to take a ceremonial weapon." Sisko was nodding, deep in thought. "This next part may sound strange to you, but it's exactly what happened. After I saw the empty mek'leth hooks, I looked at their wedding picture...and suddenly everything was clear to me, like a ray of knowledge that's been poking at my soul and finally found an opening to seep inside. I don't know how it happened, but all my instincts tell me it's right." The captain sighed, defeated.  
"Who am I to argue with three hundred years of instinct?" She smiled, relieved that he hadn't doubted her outlandish explanation.  
"A good and sensible Starfleet officer doing his job and trying to stay sane." Sisko let out a short, sharp laugh.  
"An impossible combination these days." Scratching his head, he said, "Now that we have a lead on what Worf went to do, we need to find where he went to do it. To start, why don't you..." The command in his tone was replaced by concern, as Ezri's knees had suddenly seemed to buckle and she had put one hand on the wall for support. "Are you all right, Old Man? You're not getting spacesick, are you?" She shook her head and felt her way to the couch, where she sank down and put her face in her hands.   
"No. It's just that...going in our quarters brought back so many memories, good and bad. I'm kind of in a mentally overloaded state right now." Ezri didn't even notice how she'd referred to Worf's quarters as her own. The captain regarded his friend with pity and wished he could help her, take some of the burdens onto his own shoulders. But only she had the knowledge needed to understand Worf's actions.   
"Don't worry about anything. Go home, get some rest, and don't think about this at all. I'll have Odo look into it."  
"You're going to put this out in the open?"  
"I have to, now that this has turned into more than just an officer going AWOL."  
"All right." Ezri stood. "See you later, Ben." She left his office and moved tiredly to the turbolift. Sisko turned away. He almost touched his comm badge to call Odo but decided to walk down to Security instead. Suddenly he needed to get out of his office.   
  
A tap sounded at the Master's chamber door. When he bade the visitor enter, Elij slipped into the room and was met by his delighted smile.  
"I see you are back, my son."  
"Yes, Master." The Bajoran bowed with his hands together and did some quick calculations in his head, taking into account the prisoners he'd had to execute. The Master didn't need to know about them. "We recruited fifty-two new workers, including the man you specified. Unfortunately, he proved to be difficult and had to be restrained. Shall I have him brought to you?"  
"No, not yet. I have no need for his presence at this moment." Elij blinked, surprised.   
"Then what should I have done with him, oh benevolent one?"  
"Assign him to...Barrack 7."   
"But, Master, only the extreme rebels are quartered in Barrack 7. Would not placing him there be a risk to his safety?" The Master smiled tolerantly. Of course, someone like the Bajoran who had not spoken directly to the Pagh'Wraiths would not understand. He considered their conversation over the comm link during the night. Perhaps he had been too hasty in keeping things from his trusted servant.   
"Elij, what I am about to tell you must be kept in complete secrecy. The Pagh'Wraiths themselves have told me this." His faithful attendant agreed instantly, so he continued, "I was told in a vision that when Bal'gurna was completed, I would share the honor of ruling it with another. The choice of who it would be fell under my jurisdiction. I have chosen this Klingon to rule Bal'gurna at my side." Elij's eyes were wide as he breathed,  
"But surely the Pagh'Wraiths meant for you to choose someone who would be capable of forming a closer relationship with them? A Bajoran, perhaps?" A Bajoran such as me? The Master gave a smile so eerie that Elij wanted to disappear into his robes.  
Oh, he has a closer relationship with the Pagh'Wraiths then you know, Elij.  
"You mustn't let your love of this community be limited by race, my son. Remember, I myself am not Bajoran."   
"True. You are wise as always." The Master continued,  
"The Klingon must be assigned to Barrack 7 so he can gain insight into the people he will be caring for. Not all of them will be so resistant, but it is best to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. Do you understand?"  
"Yes, Master."  
"You may go." The Bajoran left, his robes swishing at his ankles. Leaning back in his chair, the Master closed his eyes. It wasn't time to speak to the Klingon yet. When the time was right, when Bal'gurna was completed, that was when they would converse for the first time. Not before. Until then, he would just wait...and observe.  
  
  
Worf inhaled dust when he took a shuddering breath and regained consciousness, laying facedown on the dirt floor of a small hut. Coughing, he tried to pull himself to a sitting position and discovered that his hands and feet were tied, so he had to settle for wriggling around until he could roll onto his back. His head swam with the effort, an unpleasant and detrimental side effect of a phaser on stun. Sunlight filtered through the thatched roof, so it was still daytime. He apparently hadn't been out that long. With great difficulty, Worf slid a hand down into his boot and felt a surge of anger when his fingers met only his ankle. His mek'leth, the mek'leth that had been his father's and his grandfather's before that, was gone. A glance at his chest showed that his comm badge was missing, too. Cursing in Klingon as he tested his bonds, he discovered that they weren't made of virtually unbreakable synthetic material but primitive twisted fibers. He began to work at them with his fingers, feeling the end start to unravel. Suddenly the door flew open and a Jem'Hadar marched in, flanked by a Cardassian. Without speaking, the latter unsheathed a knife and grabbed Worf by the shoulder. For a moment the Klingon thought he was going to be stabbed through the heart, but all the Cardassian did was use the blade to slice through the ropes and allow him to maneuver stiffly into a sitting position. A bundle of fabric was tossed unceremoniously in his lap. Upon shaking one of the pieces of cloth out so it unfolded, he discovered it was a prisoner's uniform, identical to the ones he had seen on the people working outside. The Jem'Hadar finally rumbled,  
"Put it on, Klingon." Smoldering at the soldier but remaining silent, wary of the weapons they still held, Worf quickly removed his Starfleet uniform and donned the oversized, drab, shapeless clothing he had been given, retaining his boots. The Cardassian moved past the Jem'Hadar and collected his uniform, then stepped out again and disappeared around the corner. The scaly guard indicated with a sweep of his phaser that Worf should get up and precede him as they walked out the door. The Klingon blinked, eyes unaccustomed to the sudden brightness, and half-walked, half-stumbled down the wide main road as directed by the Jem'Hadar. It came as no surprise when they wound up in front of the row of worker barracks. Worf was hustled past the first six stone buildings and yanked to a halt at the seventh. The phaser jabbed painfully into his bruised back, causing him to grit his teeth.   
"In here." By "here" the guard meant the wooden door of the tiny structure. Suddenly feeling possessed by hatred and frustration, Worf refused to move. This angered the Jem'Hadar, who slapped a hand down on his shoulder. "I said -." But he didn't get the chance to repeat his order. The Klingon whirled around and punched him in the face with all his strength. He just had to hit something, to vent all this pressure that had been accumulating until he felt like a bomb ready to detonate. He couldn't have picked a worse time. If he'd been thinking clearly, he would have taken into consideration the fact that his usually formidable strength had been depleted by the phaser blast he'd taken earlier and that he was in no shape to challenge a Jem'Hadar. The Dominion soldier regained his balance quicker than seemed possible and smashed Worf in the forehead with the butt of his weapon. Worf fell to his knees, the world spinning around him, images blurring together like a kaleidoscope. Reaching past him, the Jem'Hadar shoved open the door to the barracks and kicked him inside. Through his dizziness, he could see that there were other people in the room. No one moved until the soldier had yanked the door shut and the sound of his footfalls fading indicated that he had left. When the room was silent, a figure jumped up from a bunk and hurried over, grasping his arm and helping him sit up.   
"Are you all right?" Fighting for breath with his solar plexus, still bruised from the Romulan's blow a few days earlier, Worf raised his gaze to meet the speaker's and was shocked to see the Klingon girl who he'd rescued from the Cardassian guards not long ago. She evidently recognized him as well, for her eyebrows shot up and her eyes, set in dark skin and the same deep, velvety brown as his own, widened in surprise. Then she gave a smile and a short, somewhat sarcastic laugh. "I didn't expect to see you again."   
"Neither did I." He paused. "Are you all right?" For a moment she seemed confused, then she answered,  
"Oh, I'm fine. They do that all the time, you know. So far someone higher-ranking has shown up or I managed to fight my way out, but I didn't think I was going to be so lucky this time." The girl slung one of his arms over her shoulders and pulled him to his feet. She was stronger than she looked. "Thank you, by the way."  
"You are welcome." Now that Worf had time to study her, he could see why the guards were so insistent about harassing her. She was very attractive for such a young age, and already possessed an impressive figure and slender waist, outlined by the tight jumpsuit she wore, an extreme contrast to his own. Her long black hair hung to her waist and shone dully in the light from the few tiny, filthy windows. Another man might have felt as the Cardassian guards did in this situation, holding the assumption that this young Klingon was merely a young, inexperienced child and easy to take advantage of. The thought didn't even cross his mind. He saw her as an ally, one of his own to side with in times of chaos and confusion. Besides, her earlier prowess while hitting the Cardassian had proved her to be anything but inexperienced.  
The girl deposited him on the bunk where she'd been laying. Worf swept the barracks with his eyes, taking in the other people crammed into this tiny living space. On the top bunk next to the side wall lay a lanky, blond Human man with his face turned in the other direction, presumably asleep. Reclining on the bunk directly beneath him was a Romulan, whose face bore a long scar from the corner of his right eye to the underside of his pointed chin. A Bolian sat cross-legged on the floor in the dusty corner with an array of bottles spread out in front of him, transferring liquids from one flask to another and making notations on a scrap of something Worf hadn't seen for ages- paper. Occasionally he would mumble incomprehensibly to himself or shake his head as if disagreeing with someone. There was a tiny desk under one of the dirt-stained windows. At it sat a Bajoran woman, hunched over, squinting to see in the dim light. She was also writing something on rarely seen paper. The sleeves of her prisoner's outfit had been ripped off, exposing her sinewy arms. Her earring was plain gold metal, in the shape of a triangle. Worf guessed she was about the same age as Colonel Kira, which meant she'd fought in the Occupation as a teenager. She was relatively young if his estimate was correct, but she looked like she had many more years under her belt. The skin under her eyes was creased and shadowed, and her thin lips were pressed in a hard line. But her most striking feature was her hair. It was about half as long as the Klingon girl's and a vibrant, flaming red.  
"Are you going to tell me your name, or should I call a guard to interrogate it out of you?" Worf's attention was abruptly drawn back to the girl, sitting on the bunk beside him.  
"I am Worf, son of Mogh." Usually when introducing himself, he used his rank instead of his father's name, but since this wasn't Starfleet, rank didn't matter, and he was addressing a fellow Klingon, he chose to use the traditional greeting, as did she.  
"Tonika, daughter of Dhu'vel."   
"How long have you been here?" She shifted and raised a sharp-fingernailed hand to push her unruly hair back.   
"For about five months now. They brought me here at the very beginning. I was one of the first 'workers'." She gave that sarcastic laugh again. "That's their word for 'prisoner.' It's a convenient illusion they have, that we actually want to be here, building their damned city." Worf stopped her. Finally- someone who knew what was going on!  
"Who is 'they?'"   
"The crazy Pagh'Wraith worshippers who run this place. It's strange. I thought the Pagh'Wraiths were supposed to be Bajoran gods, but I've seen a lot of different races here that aren't Bajoran. Us, for one." Tonika indicated the different people in the room as she spoke. "Humans, Romulans, Bolians, Vulcans, Deltans, Ferengi...the majority are Bajoran, though." Worf had noticed this.  
"What about the guards? The Cardassians would never worship Bajoran gods, and I did not think the Jem'Hadar practiced any type of religion." She sighed.  
"It's a long story."   
"Tell me." She tucked her long legs beneath her and began,  
"The cult calls this place Bal'gurna, if you haven't heard the name before. I don't know what it means; it's some ancient Bajoran word. They refer to it as a city, but it's really just a glorified labor camp for anyone they can round up, regardless of race or religion. We build temples, each devoted to worshipping the Pagh'Wraiths for something different. One for matters concerning health, one for occupations, family problems, and so on. It's supposed to be an entire city of shrines once it's complete. Prisoners that are sick or disabled build small houses. The guards think they're doing them a favor by assigning them easier work, but all they're doing is sending them to an early death. There's no modern medicine here, so don't get sick."   
"I have noticed a lack of machinery, presumably because anything large would be detected by the Dominion sensors." Tonika confirmed this with a nod.  
"They can't bring anything bigger than phasers and tiny comm systems in here, which makes it especially hard on the miners."  
"Miners?"  
"To get material for the temples and houses, the prisoners go up on the mountainside and chop off pieces of the rock, then bring them down and chip smaller pieces off to give them a somewhat regular shape so they stack easily. We only use hand tools like hammers and pickaxes. Sometimes we have crude explosives." That explained the caves Worf had seen from the pinnacle of the mountain. A noise made both Klingons look toward the bunks. The human on the top bed had stretched and sat up and was now gazing at them.  
"Hey, Tonika, who's this?" She gestured for him to join them.  
"Worf. He came in with the new group of prisoners earlier today." The man was staring at him.  
"Not Lieutenant Commander Worf? From DS9?" The Klingon was surprised to hear his rank spoken here. He didn't acknowledge the question, but instead warily asked,   
"Who are you?" The human came over, hand outstretched.  
"Commander Daniel Callahan. Call me Dan; it would be safer if we didn't use ranks here. I served on the U.S.S. Parthenon before I was captured on an away mission." Worf shook his hand.   
"How many Starfleet officers are here?" Callahan sat on the dusty floor.  
"Six now. You, me, and the other four officers from the team I was leading. They're in different barracks. We were together originally-coincidence or not I don't know- but I was moved here."   
"Why?" Worf inquired. Tonika answered for Callahan.  
"For the same reason we're all here, you included. For being extreme rebels who refuse to cooperate with the guards, attempt to lead rebellions, and generally raise hell in Bal'gurna. We're known as "Barrack 7" or sometimes just "Seven". We have quite a reputation." She tapped her chest. "I'm here because I killed three Romulans." Tonika was obviously proud of this accomplishment. "I taunt the guards, refuse to work, start fights, and insult the Master." Here was what he was looking for! Who was the clandestine man who'd ordered him brought here?  
"Who is the Master?" Worf demanded. The female Klingon shrugged.  
"I don't know, exactly. No one does, but he's supposed to be the supreme ruler. He lives up in that house on the mountainside with a few servants. The cult sees him as holy and a very touchy subject, so I use every obscenity I can think of against him to get a rise out of the guards." Callahan said,  
"I'm here because I led an escape attempt during one of the scheduled bathing times. Once a week, they take groups of prisoners down to a nearby lake, where we can clean up and wash our clothes. My officers and I tried to swim under the water until we got out of sight." The blond, freckled commander smiled ruefully. "I still have bruises from that beating." Judging by the practiced cool with which Molina had doled out corporal punishment during the hike to Bal'gurna, beatings and executions were normal practice here when a prisoner got out of line. Worf asked,  
"Do they enforce rules heavily?" At this question Tonika and Callahan exchanged solemn glances. After a moment Callahan gave a nod and said,   
"Show him." Silently, Tonika stood up, turned around, and pulled her shirt over her head. Worf's eyes widened in shock as her skin was exposed. Her entire back was covered in twisted, ugly scars, some obviously recent. Red and black splotches that could have been burns mottled her dark skin. She glanced over her shoulder.  
"Plasma burns," she explained. "The Jem'Hadar guards were issued plasma whips. They seem to enjoy watching us squirm while the sparks eat away at us." She readjusted her shirt. Suddenly one short, sharp whistle sounded outside. Worf glanced up quickly, but Tonika and Callahan seemed to be accustomed to it.   
"One whistle means work is over for the day," explained the Klingon. "The cult would love to have us work longer, but it's too risky after the sun goes down. Not enough light. It's too easy to chop off a finger or foot if you can't see where you're swinging your pick." The sun was setting, Worf saw. The light coming through the tiny windows was becoming more of a muted glare. "In ten minutes, they'll blow the whistle twice, meaning you'd better be in your barracks or there'll be trouble."   
"Why have you been in here instead of out working? I would think the guards would come looking for you when you did not report to your assigned areas.""   
"Every once in a while we try coming back early," said Callahan, "but only if there's a new guard on duty who doesn't know us all. He's so busy trying to impress his superiors by abusing the prisoners that he doesn't notice if a couple of us sneak off." He stood. "I'm going to turn in. Again." Climbing back up into the bunk he'd been asleep in before, he yawned, "'Night, Tonika."  
"Goodnight, Dan." The female Klingon flopped onto the bed beside Worf once more.   
"I guess I'd better tell you a little more about us. Callahan's an engineer. He's got a wife, Commander Michelene Callahan, on Starbase 375. Underneath him is Pradak. He worked aboard an exploratory science vessel and was captured while the ship's shields were down, taking ore samples from asteroids. That scar on his face came from one of his frequent fights with the Jem'Hadar guards." She paused to pry off her boots. Pointing to the Bolian on the floor, she continued, "That's Jeric. He's a doctor. Remember earlier, when the Cardassian hit me?" Tonika touched her ridged forehead, where the injury should have been. All that was left to indicate she had ever been assaulted was a crust of dried blood along her hairline. "This is his handiwork. He managed to smuggle in some medical supplies from his ship. I admire him, really. The man has the most focused mind of anyone I know. Once he decides to do something, you can't stop him with an armada of Klingon warships." As they watched the Bolian tinker with his vials, Worf noticed that his left hand seemed abnormally stiff. Suddenly his grip slipped and sent a bottle clattering to the ground. A yellowish liquid seeped out of the bottle's mouth and began to soak into the dirt floor. Jeric swore and began to mop it up with a cloth that appeared from inside his sleeve.   
"What is wrong with his hand?" Worf whispered to his companion.  
"The nerves in three of his fingers were severed in an accident. His other hand is incredibly steady, though. He gets along fine, and the guards still have him working with the rest of us." Tonika lowered her voice as she gestured to the Bajoran, still squinting at the papers spread out on the desk. "That's Molina Kavira. Everyone calls her Kavi." That was as far as she got before Worf interrupted urgently,  
"Molina? There was a man among the guards that brought me here by that name." Tonika nodded sadly.  
"That was Elij, her twin brother. Kavi's very sensitive about him, so I wouldn't mention his name." She scooted closer and lowered her voice even more. "You see, Elij didn't start out as a guard. He and Kavi came here together, after their transport back to Bajor was hijacked. At first he hated Bal'gurna as much as she does, but he hadn't fought in the Resistance as long or as hard as her. He wasn't as strong as she is and couldn't take the constant work and abuse. So he acted on the only option he had. He converted."   
"He began to worship the Pagh'Wraiths?" She shook her head.  
"Not at first. In the beginning he pretended to worship them, but he still prayed to the Prophets when no one was around. I would see him sometimes, kneeling down when the guards weren't watching, and mouthing words with his face turned to the sky. After he'd been fooling everyone for a while, he actually started to believe that the Pagh'Wraiths were the right gods. The bastard actually had the nerve to come in here and try to convince Kavi to join him when he went up to the Master's house and begged to be allowed to serve him. She was heartbroken when he told her of his decision. For about a week, anyway. Then she turned to hating him." Worf was silent as Tonika's story sunk in. The two of them sat on the bunk, watching Kavi. In the flickering glow of the candle that the Bajoran had lit to get more light, her eyes were steely and cold. He sympathized with her. It wasn't easy to be betrayed by someone you loved. Luckily, he'd never had to worry about that with Jadzia. Nothing could have persuaded her to abandon Worf, no matter how tempting it might have been to someone else. And he had felt equally devoted to her. Having never found anyone else like her in his whole life, he had intended to hold onto every last incredible inch of her until their time in this world was up.  
"Can anyone convert and be an overseer?" he asked. The girl abruptly slapped a spot on her arm.  
"Damn bugs. Yes, but most of those who convert are like Elij- just faking it to end their suffering. Some genuinely begin to believe."  
The shrill whistle sounded again, then once more.   
"Better get into bed, kiddies," Callahan quipped dryly from his bunk. "You know what'll happen if Daddy comes around and finds you up past your bedtime." Tonika threw a boot at him before turning to Worf.  
"Dan's right, though. It's important to stay rested if you want to survive here. You never know when an opportunity may arise, and if you're dead on your feet you won't be able to take advantage of it." Worf stood so he could keep her in his sights as she hoisted herself onto the top bed of the bunk on which they had been sitting. Behind him, Kavi had blown out the candle, stacked her papers, and was rolling into a bottom bunk, settling her head on her folded arms. The Bolian had risen from the floor after putting away his bottles and felt his way through the dark to the bunk above Kavi's. The Klingon suddenly felt exhausted.  
"What will we be doing in the morning?" he asked, only partially curious.  
"Building," Tonika said around a yawn, and scrunched the thin blanket around her wiry frame as she stretched out and closed her eyes.  
  
Sisko brushed past a Bajoran deputy on his way into Odo's office, too deep in thought to acknowledge the man's "Excuse me, sir." Odo looked up from a display on his computer screen.  
"Is there something I can do for you, Captain?"  
"Yes, Constable. I need you to locate Gul Dukat." Odo made no effort to hide the incredulity he felt at this request.  
"Captain, Gul Dukat hasn't been heard from in months. He's obviously very deep in hiding and doesn't want to be found. If the Dominion hasn't been able to locate him, what makes you think I will?"   
"I know. Just try." Odo nodded.  
"May I ask why the sudden interest in vanishing Cardassians?" The captain sighed.   
"There's something I haven't told you." A suspicious look appeared on the changeling's face. He continued, "Belay that order for now and come up to Ops. I'm calling an emergency meeting. Everyone needs to hear this." Within ten minutes the two of them were in the wardroom, accompanied by Kira, O'Brien, Bashir, and a bleary-eyed Ezri. Sisko felt guilty for having to postpone her nap. She had just fallen asleep when the meeting was announced and looked like she could use a lot more rest, but he needed her help to explain this situation to the crew. As an afterthought, Garak reclined comfortably in a chair at the end of the table. When everyone was settled, the captain began,  
"You all know about the incident with Worf five days ago."  
"Has there been any word?" asked Kira immediately. He looked toward his first officer, who perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped tightly on the table.  
"Not yet. But the morning he took the Shenandoah to Empok Nor, a message came in from Dominion space for him, sent by Gul Dukat. Ezri thinks Worf went to kill him." The room froze with surprised silence. Finally Kira spoke.  
"What could the message have said that angered Worf so much that he wanted to kill Dukat? Not that I have anything against it, of course." No one disagreed with the sentiment. Sisko corrected,  
"He didn't go because of the message. It came in an hour after he left, so there was no way it could have been what motivated him." Bashir piped up,  
"Then why did he run off like this?" Ezri answered quietly,  
"Why do you think?" Everyone exchanged glances, thinking of his wife.   
"You think he wants to kill Dukat to avenge Jadzia?" asked O'Brien. Ezri nodded with sudden conviction.  
"I'm sure of it!" When asked by Bashir how she knew, the Trill explained what had happened when she had gone to investigate Worf's quarters. As she had done with Sisko, she omitted the parts where she'd lost total control, not wanting them to think she was crazy, telling them only about the absent mek'leth and what she'd felt when gazing at the wedding photo. Only Odo looked skeptical when she'd finished. Addressing Sisko, the changeling said,  
"So we assume Commander Worf went to find Dukat. As I said in the Security office, he hasn't been heard from in months, other than this message. What did it say?" Sisko relayed the contents of the transmission. Upon hearing his words, Odo cupped his chin thoughtfully in his palm. "Has Worf had any other contact with Dukat? Any other messages revealing his location?" Sisko shook his head.  
"No. He didn't even know about this message, as I mentioned before. It was actually Weyoun who contacted me, right before Worf stopped back to transport the relay aboard." Sisko ran through everything that had happened since his talk with the Vorta and his startling accusation that they were hiding Dukat. When he had finished, Bashir said in his lilting British accent,  
"What does Starfleet think about this?" Again, the captain was reminded that he had neglected his duty.  
"I haven't contacted them as of now. As soon as this meeting is over it's the first thing I'm going to do." Garak, whom everyone had since forgotten about, interrupted,  
"Excuse me, Captain. This is all very fascinating, but what does it have to do with me? A tailor's life is a busy one, you know, and I don't have the time to-." Sisko cut him off.   
"I'm getting to that, Mr. Garak." He scanned the table and commanded, "Odo, read through recent Starfleet Intelligence reports and see if you can dig up anything else about Dukat. Chief, try to trace the Shenandoah's ion trail, see if you can figure out where Worf was headed. Colonel-." He hesitated. "I'd like to see you in private. Old Man, keep searching Worf's quarters." It was evident from the expression on her face that she hated that idea, but thankfully Ezri didn't complain. "After you rest, of course," he appended. "Mr. Garak," he addressed the Cardassian, "If you could contact your sources on Cardassia. See if they know anything about Dukat's disappearance." Garak nodded and displayed his famous charming smile.  
"I'll see what I can do." Sisko stood and nodded to his crew.  
"Dismissed." Colonel Kira lingered as they all filed out. The captain stepped to her side, uncertain how to broach a subject that might cause her some emotional discomfort.  
"Would you be able to get in touch with anyone you know that worships the Pagh'Wraiths?" Kira didn't seem surprised or disturbed.  
"To see if they know where Dukat is?" He pointed a finger at her.  
"Exactly."   
"I'll get right on it." She nodded and exited, with Sisko following her. While the Bajoran strode into the turbolift, he climbed the stairs into his office and sent a transmission to Starbase 375. A woman in a burgundy uniform introduced herself as Commander Callahan and instructed him to wait as she transferred him to the admiral's office. Within moments he was face-to-face with Admiral Ross. After he'd told his story again, Ross said,  
"I'm going to have to confer with Starfleet Command on Earth. I'll get back to you as soon as possible, but in the meantime, have your people do all they can to find both Commander Worf and Gul Dukat."   
"Yes, sir." Sisko cut communications and sat back at his desk. Now all he could do was wait.  
  
/ Worf rolled over onto his back on the tiny bunk in his quarters on the Defiant. Even though he was under orders to get some rest, sleep just refused to come. Times like these, when they began a mission in the middle of the night, were hard on everyone aboard. Captain Sisko insisted that his bridge crew be awake and alert, so he'd sent them to get some sleep before they arrived at their destination. The Klingon couldn't pry his mind from the upcoming battle. They were endeavoring to destroy a closely guarded Ketracel-white facility in Cardassian territory. He couldn't wait to get his hands on the phaser controls, to marvel at the pure, devastating energy that he was unleashing. But at the same time, he felt a tincture of the same anxiety being experienced by the rest of the crew. The base was heavily fortified. What if something went wrong? What if the mission failed? What if they didn't make it back? His thoughts turned to Jadzia, also attempting to sleep in separate quarters not far down the hall. Being alone in bed had become a foreign sensation ever since their marriage; now Worf felt strangely cold and alone. The two of them normally shared quarters on the Defiant, but this time all of the rooms with multiple bunks were taken, so they'd been assigned to different quarters. Worf hated it. So did Jadzia, apparently, for after a few more minutes the door slid open. She stood there, silhouetted against the light from the hall, clad in Starfleet-issue undershirt and boxers, a more modest and appropriate choice than the revealing nightgowns that the Klingon was used to, and peered into the dark room. Jadzia stepped over the threshold and into the uncomfortably small, stark quarters, letting the door close behind her before announcing,  
"I can't sleep." Worf propped himself up on an elbow.  
"Nor can I." Without waiting for an invitation, the Trill padded barefoot over to the bunk and slid in, crawling over him to wedge her slender frame in between him and the bulkhead.  
"I don't care how small or hard these damned things are," she griped, shoving him. "Move over." He complied gladly, laying back and slipping an arm around his parmach'kai as he did so. Her loose hair brushed his arm teasingly. Jadzia settled familiarly against him, and Worf began to believe that he could actually forget the war and the upcoming combat.  
"Nervous?" he inquired.  
"No. Lonely." She sighed. "I've gotten used to you." Resting her head on his shoulder, she danced the tips of her fingers across his chest. "I'm not tired. You want to sing a Klingon opera?" Worf couldn't contain a smile.  
"I do not think the rest of the crew would approve." Grinning, Jadzia negotiated,  
"We'll make it something appropriate for going into battle."   
"No."  
"Please?"  
"No."  
"I'll sing by myself, then."  
"Go to sleep, Jadzia." The Trill pretended to pout.  
"I can't." Worf leaned over and lightly kissed her eyelids.  
"Close your eyes." She complied, and soon they both slept. / The Klingon tried to adjust the blanket again, but the worn material just didn't provide enough warmth to satisfy him. Listening to the breathing of the others in Barrack 7, Tonika's the easiest to differentiate as she was lying in the bunk directly above his, he tried to suppress his frustration. It wasn't fair that after all he'd been through, all his planning, he wound up a captive. He needed to find Dukat so he could avenge Jadzia's murder, and he wasn't going to be able to do it trapped in a tiny barrack, struggling to stay warm under a insubstantial blanket. Worf had considered killing himself from the moment he woke up in the temporary holding cell, but since his mek'leth was gone, that option was out for now. He was curious as to why Tonika was still alive. She hadn't chosen suicide upon being captured. Why? He would have to ask her tomorrow. He shivered. Soukara's cold night air managed to penetrate even the thick rock walls of the barrack. Every so often the rhythmic footfalls of the guards making their rounds became audible outside. Sometimes a muffled voice could be heard, giving orders or asking questions. When he finally slept, it was only for an hour or two before Callahan was shaking him awake.  
"Get up. Breakfast." Worf almost shrugged off his hand, wanting to sleep, but the thought of food made his mouth water. He hadn't eaten since he left DS9. Swinging his legs off the side of the bunk, he saw that an early light was streaming through the windows. Pradak, Jeric, and Kavi were gathered around a box, on which a few opened packages of rations were spread out. They glanced up at him as he joined the circle. The Bajoran sat back and leaned on her hand.  
"I don't believe we've been properly introduced." She had a low, husky voice that somehow managed to fill the room.   
"I am Worf, son of Mogh." No ranks here.   
"I'm Kavira. I go by Kavi." Behind them, Callahan had climbed up to the bunk above the one Worf had slept in, where Tonika still lay drowsing on her side. He nudged her shoulder so she fell onto her back, then jerked his hand away as if she might bite it off when she gave an annoyed snarl. Jumping down, he chuckled,  
"Well, good morning to you too, sunshine."  
"Call me sunshine again and I'll break your nose," the Klingon replied. Worf noticed that Callahan seemed unusually cheerful, reminding him a bit of Chief O'Brien. The commander sat in the circle around the makeshift table.   
"Someone should tie that hair of hers to the bunk while she's asleep."   
"Don't even think about it," Tonika retorted as she shouldered her way in. "Good morning, Worf. Sleep well?"  
"I did not." It was the Romulan who extended his hand to Worf next.  
"Name's Pradak. Are you any good at hand-to-hand combat?"   
"I am trained in Klingon martial arts."  
"Good. You can help me take out the Jem'Hadar." The Bolian introduced himself subsequently, stating only his name and striking Worf not as cold-mannered but as distracted, preferring to keep to himself.  
Pradak fought ferociously with a strip of dried meat. Following the Romulan's example, Worf helped himself to a piece of the meat, which looked recently cured. He couldn't identify the flavor when he ripped a leathery chunk off with his teeth. Probably some native Soukara animal. Despite the odd aftertaste, it seemed like a delicacy after not eating for so long. A jug of water was passed around to wash it down. Then Jeric produced a lumpy bag from out of nowhere, causing Tonika to yelp in surprise and pounce on him.  
"So you did get into the supply shed!" The Bolian protested,  
"I never said I didn't, I-."  
"Whatever, whatever." The Klingon shook the bag, and out tumbled eight small, hard biscuits that resembled rocks. Everyone grabbed for their share. She tossed Worf a biscuit and began to gnaw on her own, informing him matter-of-factly,  
"The cult gives us one week's supply of rations at a time. If you finish them before the week is up- well, you're going to be hungry. It's always a treat when we're able to raid the supply shed." Worf nodded absently, surveying the circle of his fellow prisoners.   
"How long have you been here?" he asked them. He found himself warming to Tonika, feeling like he could talk openly with her despite her young age and the fact that they had just met. Certainly their conversations couldn't be nearly as open as they had been with Jadzia, but to a certain extent he would be willing to tell her things about himself and his past. She seemed strong and healthy despite her incarceration, and fought with skill and practiced ease. And not once had she complained about the hideous plasma burns on her back, even though they must have hurt enormously. Over time, perhaps she could become a confidant. / Worf was standing with his back to the door, gazing disconnectedly out the window, when Jadzia crept into the bedroom, not sure if he was asleep and not wanting to wake him if he was. It had been a long day for both of them, as they had spent it babysitting the unstoppably energetic Kirayoshi O'Brien. When she found him up, she came to his side, but the playful remark she had intended to make faded from her lips when she saw the solemn expression on his face. Her smooth forehead creased with concern.  
"Worf, what's wrong?" He seemed not to hear her at first, then glanced down to meet her gaze.   
"It is nothing. Go to bed; you need to rest." The Trill wasn't about to give up that easily. She hated to see Worf upset about something. He always did so much to help her through various hardships, but when he was having a hard time he tended to withdraw and suffer in private. Her arms slipped around his waist and she rested her head on his broad back.  
"What's on your mind? You can tell me." Worf's bass voice was deeper than usual when he spoke, his words seeming to echo.  
"I do not know if I can talk about this with anyone." Jadzia responded, soft and encouraging,  
"If you can't talk to me, parmach'kai, who can you talk to?" Worf silently contemplated this, knowing she was correct. If he refused to tell her his thoughts, who was there left to trust? The Klingon resigned himself with a sigh and sat on the window ledge, drawing Jadzia down at his side. She faced him and tucked her long, spotted legs up underneath her.   
"It is about...our children." She raised her eyebrows.  
"We don't have any, to my knowledge."   
"I am not certain that we should." He had expressed this with caution, not wanting to insult her, but after her centuries of experience not much could shake her anymore.  
"I see," she said slowly. "Why?"  
"It is because of the way Alexander grew up. I was separated from him until he was five years old. Because of that, I know virtually nothing about caring for children. I am afraid that our baby would grow up without the benefit of a proper father. It would be my fault if anything bad were to happen." Jadzia reached over and took his hands in hers.   
"It would be different with our child. The three of us would stay together, no matter what. And what about all this time you're spending with Yoshi? He loves you, Worf! Remember that "gung, gung, gung" thing? You're a natural." The Trill slid closer and stroked the side of his face. "Everyone's got to start somewhere. You'd make a wonderful father." A pause. "You are a wonderful father." Jadzia was indeed impressed by how quickly he and Alexander had bonded since his son joined the House of Martok. Worf stayed silent, thinking, before extending a hand to pull her close. She leaned against him, her head on his chest, one of his arms around her and his hand on the gentle curve of her hip. The Klingon asked,  
"Would you be all right, Jadzia?"  
"What do you mean?" she said, looking up.   
"A child might be too taxing on you, after what happened on Soukara-." His wife placed a cool finger over his lips.   
"It's been so long since then, Worf. I've been fully recovered for months now." The last of this came out in a yawn. Watching his wife, Worf remembered how tired he was from chasing Yoshi around their quarters for hours on end.   
"We should get some rest."  
"You'll get no argument from me." / Over time? How long was he expecting to stay here? Was he really surrendering that easily? Worf stiffened. He could not allow himself to lose sight of his goal. He had a responsibility to Jadzia: to escape and find Dukat. Perhaps his fellow prisoners knew a way out of this camp. The people in question went around their circle and answered the inquiry he didn't even remember making. Commander Callahan spoke first.  
"They brought me here about four months ago. I still haven't got used to the food." Kavi was next.  
"Four months for me, too. And Pradak. We were on the same shuttle here." The Romulan confirmed this with a nod in her direction. Jeric was last, announcing only,  
"Three months." The Klingon leaned forward, sure that in their combined time here, one of them must have seen a possible escape route.  
"Is there-?" he began, but was interrupted when the door to the barrack flew open and in plowed a Cardassian, the bright sunlight behind him making it appear as if he had been catapulted out of a supernova. Pradak snatched the bag of stolen biscuits and hid it behind his back.   
"Get up," instructed the guard. "You will work in the mines today instead of completing the harvest temple." No one moved. Worf, following their examples, remained still.   
"Why?" asked the Romulan.  
"The Master has ordered it." Tonika spoke up, her voice dripping with animosity.   
"Why doesn't he come down and tell us himself? Is he so afraid of a bunch of prisoners that he has to hide on the mountainside like the coward he is?" The Cardassian's hand went to his belt and withdrew a phaser. Worf finally realized that this was the second guard who'd assaulted her the day before.  
"Get up. Now." When no one budged, he strode across the room, bypassing Worf, Kavi, Callahan, Pradak, and Jeric, and grabbed Tonika's arm, dragging her roughly to her feet. "You think you're so smart, Klingon. Maybe I should send your friends off to work and keep you here for myself, show you who's boss." If anyone ever touched Jadzia in that way... Abruptly he snapped his other arm up, placing the phaser against her temple. "The rest of you- up and to the mountain before you're short a worker." Jeric, glowering, got to his feet, followed by the rest of them. The guard released Tonika and shoved her into line next to Worf. She was fuming as they walked along the main road leading to the mines. "One day," she swore, "I'm going to make him wish he'd never even laid eyes on me." Worf knew that if it had been Jadzia in that Cardassian's grasp, he would have been dead on the floor so fast it would make his head spin- the whole way around to face backwards.  
"Where are your parents?" he asked her. Since she was not wearing a jinaq amulet, the sign that a Klingon girl was of age to take a mate, he'd assumed she was still under the care of her parents. But the cult had taken his comm badge, so surely they would have taken jewelry as well.   
"Dead. They were captured at the same time as me, but they were executed two months ago. And you'll never guess how." She swung toward him, her face contorting in the hatred he was seeing so often in Bal'gurna. "Burning. They were burned alive, tied to a stake in the middle of the city, and I was forced to watch." Worf thought of the horrendous painting he had seen on the Jem'Hadar ship and shuddered. "Do you know why?" the girl continued. "It was my birthday the day that they died. I had just turned eighteen and was supposed to have received my jinaq this year." He had originally thought her to be only seventeen. Her time in the camp and malnutrition must have stunted her growth. "My parents hated it here as much as I do. My father's last words to me were 'Daughter, on this day I will bring you honor.' Then he and my mother set off up the mountain to kill the Master. They actually got inside his house before the guards apprehended them." Tonika shook her head sadly. "The next time I saw them they were engulfed in flames." Worf did not express sorrow; to do so would be an insult, implying that her parents were not worthy of entering Sto'Vo'Kor. Instead he replied,  
"I see." They walked in silence, contemplating the fond memories of the ones they had loved.  
  
"We're sending the Ninth Fleet, Ben." Admiral Ross was speaking of the need for vessels to protect Deep Space Nine against the cluster of troops at Cardassia. Sisko restrained himself from letting out an explosive sigh of relief.  
"Thank you, sir. I felt it was necessary to have some ships besides the Defiant to protect DS9, even if the Dominion doesn't attack over this." On the screen, Ross sat back in his chair.  
"Starfleet Command agreed with you."   
"When will they be arriving?" Sisko asked, trying not to sound too anxious. Ross replied,  
"The fleet's here at Starbase 375 at the moment, so traveling at maximum warp, about three days." Sisko nodded.  
"Let's hope we don't need them." He began to sign off, but the admiral stopped him.  
"One more thing. I talked to Starfleet Command about the situation with Commander Worf, as well. Naturally, the first thing that popped into their heads was the failed mission to Soukara, on which Worf abandoned duty to save his wife. Yes, this is a different situation because he didn't go against orders, but all the same, he acted without permission. He disobeyed orders once and was lucky to barely escape a court-martial. Now we need to think about what's going to happen if the Dominion captures him, or he kills Dukat, returns, and they want to put him on trial. The commander did this on his own and without Starfleet's approval, so there's no guarantee that we can defend him against the Dominion if it becomes necessary." Sisko had known this, even preached it to Ezri earlier. Still, he protested,  
"With all due respect, Admiral, are you telling me Starfleet would just leave Worf at the hands of the enemy?"  
"He has lost the trust of Starfleet, Captain," Ross emphasized, annoyance seeping into his voice. "And if or when he returns, there will most definitely be a court-martial waiting for him this time, maybe worse. I'm sorry, but there's nothing that can be done. Ross out." The admiral's image blinked abruptly off and was substituted by the blue Federation logo. Sisko rubbed his eyes tiredly. Worse than a court-martial- what did that mean? Prison time? Dishonorable discharge? He hoped for Worf's sake that it wasn't the latter. There weren't many things the Klingon valued more than honor and keeping it intact. But there had been one.  
  
Bal'gurna is beautiful at sunrise, the Master thought as he stood on his balcony, still dressed in his sleeping robes. It's a shame my followers don't have a view like this. But they are the luckiest among us, I suppose. They are the most deeply involved with the holy city, as they are the ones building it from the ground up. He adjusted his telescope and pressed his eye to it, sweeping the device from side to side to take in all the activity going on below in the early morning hours. Voices rang out, and hammers could be heard clashing against the mountain as rocks were excavated from the many caves. Soukara's sun reflected in the eyepiece, making him blink and turn away from the blinding light. When his vision had cleared and he was able to look again, he focused on the tiny building that was Barrack 7, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Klingon if he hadn't left to begin work already. He had instructed his guards to pull Barrack 7's group off their current project, constructing a temple devoted to praying for things related to the harvest, and put them up in the mines today. Just then the door to the brick structure swung open, releasing a line of workers. The Bolian was first, followed by the Romulan, the Human, and the Bajoran. The two Klingons brought up the rear.  
The head Cardassian guard who'd been sent to get them stood around to make sure they were really going to the mountain, then moved off, satisfied. He was a good follower, that one. Resistant at first, but willing to serve- in exchange for a promise. But he didn't know there wasn't a shred of truth behind it, and what he didn't know couldn't hurt him- yet.   
The Master mused over his conversation with Elij the previous night. Should he have selected a Bajoran to rule with him as his servant had suggested? In any other case, that might have been appropriate, but here the Pagh'Wraiths had insisted on someone who had a deep understanding of them, not just a devoted belief in their existence. The Klingon had that knowledge. He'd acquired it some months ago, quite against his will, when he'd made a sacrifice in their favor, helping them grow even stronger. It had been something he cared about very much, but that paled in comparison to the goodness of the Pagh'Wraiths and the happiness they could bring him if he agreed to serve them. And he would agree.   
The Master peered through the telescope again, tracking the Klingons as they walked to the mines. They weren't talking anymore, just walking side by side and looking straight ahead. The girl was clenching and unclenching her fists as they crossed the central square. That particular place seemed to stir up strong feelings in her. Why was this? The Master wracked his mind. Oh, yes- her parents had been executed there. It had been an unpleasant task to have them put to death, but they had tried to kill him. The assault had been unexpected. In his earlier life, he had stationed guards day and night to protect himself, for it had seemed everyone was after his throat. Now, as he was a spiritual leader, attempts on his life were rare if not nonexistent and he hadn't expected the attack. No guards had been on duty, but Rek had seen the pair of Klingons and gotten a phaser just in time.   
The Klingon that the Master had selected wore a disconnected expression on his face. The Master studied him carefully. He wasn't showing any further signs of rebelling. Excellent. That was already a step in the right direction. He wanted desperately to talk to the Klingon, to be able to discuss the love of the Pagh'Wraiths with someone who understood what it was like to give up everything for them. Oh, he could talk to Elij, Kolara, Rek, or his fourth servant, Dela, and even though they were worthy enough to serve him they didn't entirely comprehend how powerful and good the Pagh'Wraiths were. He couldn't yet converse with the Klingon, though, for he hadn't yet received a vision telling him to do so. The Master looked forward to that day anticipatively. Pushing the telescope aside, he continued along the length of the balcony, gazing out over Bal'gurna. He almost stumbled in surprise when a board creaked under his feet. The house was getting rickety, even though it had been built not half a year ago. Apparently ordinary wood planks weren't the best material to use. But he had needed a temporary dwelling, somewhere from which he could keep watch on his followers. In time, his own spectacular palace would be built in the middle of the city using the massive stones he favored, right in the central square where the citizens and workers could look upon it with awe and reverence. And the Master knew the perfect people to perform the task.  
  
Ezri lay in her own small bed in her quarters with the blankets pulled up to her chin. Under the covers, she was curled in a tight fetal ball. She just couldn't seem to get warm. Worf had been gone for almost an entire week now. Even as Jadzia, she hadn't worried this much when her husband went off with General Martok for extended periods of time. There was just an uneasy, dreading feeling in the bottom of her stomach that she couldn't explain. The Trill sniffed and rubbed her tired eyes. Forcing herself to relax, she stretched her body out the length of the bed and folded an arm under the side of her head. Why was she reacting to Worf's disappearance so strongly? Ezri hadn't allowed this to sink in until now. It wasn't normal that she should have such overwhelming feelings for someone involved with a previous host, even if the feelings weren't love. It was natural to be concerned for a lost friend, and she would have felt the same towards Nerys or Julian. Would I really? she thought. Don't kid yourself, Ezri. There's a special bond between you and Worf somehow. He loved Jadzia so deeply that it carried over into the next life. But this isn't love. It's just...oh, hell, I don't know. I'm not trained for this. Counselor or no counselor, I'm not prepared to deal with something on this level. The Trill tossed and turned for fifteen more minutes before getting up and wrapping herself in her cozy gray robe. Shuffling out into the main part of her quarters, she stepped up to the replicator and mumbled,  
"Cocoa, hot." The mug appeared, a delicious odor wafting from it. Ezri picked it up and took a sip. The creamy liquid was thick and soothing, just what she needed. Taking the mug back into the bedroom, she sat on the bed and folded her legs as she drank. Once she'd drained the cup, she put it on her nightstand and lay down again. The sensation of muscular arms around her nudged at her mind, but she pushed it away and slept.  
  
Worf's first week in Bal'gurna was filled with some of the hardest manual labor he'd ever done in his life. Each day they would awaken early and trek across the city and up to the mines, where they would take up their tools and hack ineffectually away at the inside of the caves, breaking away pieces of rock that were minuscule when compared to the mountain in its entirety. The work was grueling, the air was stale, the temperature unbearable. Modesty was a luxury, as the prisoners shed almost all articles of clothing in an effort to keep from passing out from the heat. At the end of the second day, Worf's hands were covered in open, oozing sores. His cellmates showed him their own leathery, callused palms that night. Danger lurked constantly. Rock chips flew and would blind a person if they were struck in the eyes. A pickax could be swung just a little in the wrong direction and crack open a skull just as easily as it would a rock. The guards were always there, the Cardassians thriving in the heat, the Jem'Hadar not caring, both races equally aggressive when it came to keeping the prisoners on their feet and working. The Romulan and Bajoran guards stayed outside at the mouths of the caves, waiting to pick off anyone who tried to make a run for it. On the third afternoon, a blond man suddenly dropped his tool and sprinted for the light beyond the cave opening. No sooner had he taken three steps past it then he was sprawled on the ground, a horrible, gaping red maw between his shoulder blades. A Jem'Hadar left the cave and slung the body over his shoulder, carrying the man's lifeless form away down the mountain. Using Pradak as a shield so the guards wouldn't see him, the incessantly happy Callahan slumped down to the dusty floor with his face in his hands, sobbing. The man, he later explained, had been his best friend aboard the Parthenon.   
Worf trained himself to block out the exhaustion and monotony of the tasks he was forced to perform, to let his body move on its own, like a kind of autopilot. He used the time to think. / Jadzia ducked under Worf's outstretched arm and came up panting, thrusting her bat'leth up to deflect the Klingon's away. The power of her movements always impressed Worf; even though she was slighter of body then he, the Trill's energy and enthusiasm were boundless and fueled her strength. He could make out the contours of her lean, firmly muscled body beneath the snug black jumpsuit she wore, similar to his own. Her loose hair flipped with every dodge, wild and Klingon-like, but it was too straight, too much the texture of silk to be a Klingon's. Streams of sweat trickled down her spotted face and neck, and she growled, swinging her bat'leth at him,  
"Surrender!" Worf didn't bother to reply, ducking out of the way, but the blade nicked his arm, tearing his sleeve and drawing blood. Swinging around, he used his bat'leth to knock Jadzia's away, and she immediately grabbed his as hers clattered to the holosuite floor, a simulation of an ancient, dusty stone courtyard. They grappled for the remaining weapon before Jadzia twisted it out of his hands. The Trill used it to expertly sweep Worf's feet out from under him and send him sprawling to the floor next to her blade, but the Klingon, equally skilled, wrapped his leg around his wife's and tripped her. She released his bat'leth as she fell, and for a moment they lay there, each keeping a close, suspicious eye on the other. When Worf made the first lunge towards the two bat'leths, Jadzia leaped on him and pinned him to the floor with her body, kissing him hard and digging her teeth brutally into his lip. This distracted him enough so she could escape and scoop up both bat'leths. He scrambled to his feet, noting that he'd been fooled with one of her decidedly non-Klingon tactics.  
Now Worf was unarmed, and Jadzia knew that to fight a defenseless opponent when you yourself were armed would all but scream that you were dishonorable. So she tossed him his bat'leth, which he caught with ease. With a shriek, she lunged at him, and not long after he found himself flat on his back again, Jadzia straddling his chest, pressing her long legs against his sides, the tip of her blade digging into his throat. Hoarsely she said,  
"I guess I'm just lucky today." / Worf would think about a lot of things while he worked, mainly how much he missed Jadzia and how deeply he hated Dukat. If only he knew where Dukat was. It would be so much easier to formulate an escape plan if he had a destination in mind.   
At about 1430, the prisoners would be instructed to load all the new building stones into carts and haul them down the mountain to a site where they would use smaller tools to smooth the tops so the rocks could be stacked evenly to form walls and the gaps filled in with clay. This change of pace was always welcome, as they could sit down and rest their aching muscles, sometimes in the shade. But that was only after they lifted the heavy boulders into the carts, then grasped the splintery wooden handles and pulled them along, struggling not to let the weight crush them on the way down the slope. Worf and Tonika often worked side by side at this. While they labored, they talked, mostly about Tonika's past. She had served aboard her father's Bird of Prey since she was fifteen and had much experience in battle. Her tale of how she'd had to take command on one occasion during an attack was just one of the enthralling stories she told, which helped to pass the time. After a few days she got curious about his background. Worf weighed the decision in his mind and decided to tell her about himself, something he normally reserved for close friends and family. For some reason he trusted her almost immediately. On the afternoon of his fourth day in Bal'gurna, as they sat perspiring and chiseling away at the rocks to level them, he began to reveal the details of his life.  
  
"My parents were killed at Khitomer when I was very young," Worf began. "I lived with Human foster parents until I went to Starfleet Academy. When I graduated, I served aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise for a number of years. When she was destroyed, I spent time in the monastery on Boreth." Tonika interrupted,  
"You? In a monastery?"   
"Yes. Why does that surprise you?" She shrugged and set aside the rock she'd been working on, as it was now satisfactorily smooth, and reached for another.  
"I don't know. You just don't seem like a person who'd follow a spiritual path." Steering the conversation away from that area, she asked, "So what did you do after Boreth?"  
"I was transferred to Deep Space Nine to aid in the ongoing conflict among the Klingons, the Federation, and the Cardassians." Worf paused. If he had gone through with his plans to resign from Starfleet, if he had stayed in the monastery- Tonika was right, he didn't belong there- then he never would have met Jadzia. Jadzia, who'd helped him to adjust to station life, who'd been there for him during hard times. Jadzia, who'd given him an opportunity to unleash his frustration towards life in the holosuite, enduring and enjoying the long, hard-fought battles. Jadzia, who'd developed into something much more than a friend- and something much more than a lover. She'd become an eternal part of him, and he of her.   
Tonika's voice cut into his thoughts.  
"So that's it?" Worf looked up at her, for an instant seeing Jadzia's enchanting face flash before his eyes. Impatiently she repeated,  
"What happened aboard DS9? You've got to have some stories to tell. That station's right on the front lines!" Worf had initially had some doubt about whether or not to tell anyone about Jadzia. But Tonika seemed trustworthy, and with her experience, she could prove to be a valuable ally in the future. He finished his rock and shoved it away, scanning the area hastily for any guards. When he saw there were none around, he turned to the girl. She laid down her tools as well, sensing she was about to be told something important.   
"I do have a story. But you must not reveal any of it to anyone, Tonika." She nodded. Worf studied her carefully. Would she keep it a secret? He must have hesitated too long, because she abruptly grabbed a sharp tool and sliced a line down her sweaty palm. Dark blood began to drip from the wound. Holding out her cut hand, she gave him the tool. Relieved that she was indeed serious, he slashed his own hand and clasped hers tightly, sealing the pledge with their mingled blood. Her grip was strong and confident.  
"I won't breathe a word," she assured him. Worf took a deep breath and steeled himself. This was going to be painful. But some inner instinct told him that Tonika was going to be important to him in the near future. He could trust her.   
"When I was assigned to Deep Space Nine," he began, "I met a woman. A Trill, by the name of Jadzia Dax. Perhaps you have heard the name; her predecessor Curzon negotiated the Khitomer Accords." The girl nodded, apparently making the connection. "She had a love of all things Klingon, despite being Trill. She enjoyed our operas, our food, our customs, as much as you and I do. Jadzia would even fight with me in the holosuites, reenacting famous battles. She was strong- very strong, in more ways than one. Almost instantly, Jadzia earned my trust and became my friend. Our friendship eventually developed into love, overcoming many obstacles along the way. But I knew that as long as I had her by my side, I could be victorious in anything." Worf briefly closed his eyes.  
/Jadzia's smile, warming the room.  
Jadzia's touch, smoothing away all the pain.   
Jadzia's mere presence, adding meaning to his existence. /  
"After the Federation retook Deep Space Nine, we were married. That bond seemed to strengthen our understanding of each other, to the point where any more comprehension would have meant we were sharing one body and one mind." Tonika was gazing at him raptly. The guards had called for a water break, but neither of the Klingons budged. "Our marriage lasted for a glorious three months and would have held strong until we died together and made the journey to Sto'Vo'Kor, but Jadzia was...murdered." At the thought of Gul Dukat, who still ran amok in the universe somewhere while Worf was stuck here on this damned planet chipping at these damned rocks for no damned good reason at all, the Klingon snatched up a tool and vented his fury by ramming it into a rock so hard that it split in two. Kind of like a skull. A Cardassian skull. And it had indeed been a murder. A senseless, futile murder. She hadn't died honorably in battle. With so much of her life-their lives- ahead of her, she had been carelessly slain. "Perhaps you have heard the name Gul Dukat?" The Cardassian's name was bitter poison on his tongue. At his side, wide-eyed, Tonika nodded affirmatively.  
"Who hasn't? The man who oversaw the entire Bajoran Occupation. Plus the only Cardassian ever to worship Bajoran gods." Worf was clutching the chisel so hard his fingers were beginning to ache. When he tried to let it drop to the ground, he found that he could not.   
"Dukat allowed himself to be possessed by the Pagh'Wraiths and transported onto the station and into the Bajoran shrine, where my wife was paying homage to the Prophets. A Bajoran friend of ours had said a prayer for us there when she heard we were trying to have children." The guards were returning, flanked by a horde of prisoners who still looked more dead than alive, even after the rest they'd been given to take a drink, so the Klingon girl took her tool in hand again and went back to work. Her brow was furrowed and she looked like she had a question, but she didn't interrupt.  
"Dukat injured her with an energy field, badly enough that the Dax symbiont had to be removed. And of course, once that was done..." Holding up her hand, Tonika indicated that she knew what he was going to say next; he didn't have to spell it out. But he pushed on anyway. "When Jadzia died, I felt as if a part of me had expired as well. I can never truly be happy again, now that I have lost her. Not with anyone else, not on my own." He stared intensely into his companion's eyes, attempting to make her understand the love he'd shared with his parmach'kai. "Without Jadzia, I was an incomplete man. Now that she is gone, I am...unfinished once more." Tonika sat silently, the hot afternoon wind ruffling her long hair, sharp teeth playing at her bottom lip. Then she said,   
"So what are you going to do about it?"   
"That is the reason I am here. I was captured while en route into Cardassian space, where I was going to find Dukat and kill him. In order to finish what I started, I need to get out of Bal'gurna. Do you know a way?" Her voice somehow grew older, burdened.  
"I wish I did. Others have tried, failed, and been executed. But if I figure something out, you and the rest of Seven will be the first ones to know." Worf took little comfort in that promise.  
  
The Master walked down the long hall, his footsteps reverberating. He nodded in response to Kolara's respectful bow as they passed each other. Just as he turned the corner and pushed open the heavy wooden door leading to his library, images swarmed into his mind, causing him to stumble. When he looked up, reddish, surreal illumination from nowhere made the hallway glow. Kolara was standing in the open door, her hood laying on her shoulders, pale hair dangling towards the floor as she gazed downward. But that was impossible- she'd just gone the opposite way! Then he gasped in understanding. "What do you wish of me, almighty ones?" he whispered hoarsely, dropping to his knees in awe. The Kolara-wraith's head slowly lifted. Her eyes, normally purple, were two glowing rubies. As they fixed on the Master, prostrated on the ground, he shuddered with an almost physical pleasure. To be mere feet from one's revered god was a truly wondrous experience. Frightening as well, for this was the time when they would judge you, deem for themselves whether or not you were pleasing them with your services. The Kolara-wraith's voice seemed to echo.   
"Many fates rest in your hands." She's talking about my followers, the inhabitants of Bal'gurna. The Master nodded eagerly.  
"Yes! My followers- they depend on me for guidance. I want only to lead them down the right path, so that at the end they may find your love." The apparition before him announced,  
"It is time for you to guide them." But that's what I've been doing- I just said that! The Master frowned worriedly.  
"I... I don't understand, oh almighty ones."  
"It is time for you to guide them," the Kolara-wraith repeated in an infuriatingly patient tone of voice, as if speaking to a small child. What do they mean? He found himself wondering if the Emissary of the Prophets ever had this much trouble understanding the gods. I must not think of...them. The false gods. The Pagh'Wraiths will sense my disloyal thoughts. Suddenly he gasped.  
"You want me to speak to them!" Unanticipated anxiety swept over him. He had only addressed his followers in person on a single occasion: when Bal'gurna was first begun. Since then he'd lived in seclusion, not associating with them other than his rare incognito trips down into the city to observe the construction firsthand or to check on a certain worker, such as the Klingon. "What-what do you want me to say? Is it time for them to build my palace? What about the Klingon? Should I make myself known to him? Please, help me!" The Pagh'Wraith in the form of Kolara glided away from the library doorway, revealing another ghostly figure resembling his other female servant, Dela. The similitude was uncanny; she had the same short-cropped brown hair and prettily ridged nose, the same earring, the same birthmark above her lip. Yet her eyes flamed with the same ethereal rubescence that could only mean he was in the holy presence of another Pagh'Wraith. The new arrival moved silently forward.  
"The selected ones shall construct the gateway. All whose lives are yours must know this."  
"You want me to...go down and tell them all to build my palace?" The Kolara-wraith stepped noiselessly to the Dela-wraith's side. They spoke simultaneously:  
"The selected ones shall construct the gateway."  
"Who are the selected ones?"  
"He who you have selected is among them." A familiar face filled the Master's mind.  
"The occupants of Barrack 7!" The Master had reasoned that since the rebels were so resistant to the rightful gods, the perfect way to make them see the truth was to have them work on the building in which their intermediary to the Pagh'Wraiths would reside. Of course! The Pagh'Wraiths had given him the inspiration to think of having Seven build his palace! The Dela-wraith pointed down the hall. Only she remained now; the god in the form of Kolara had disappeared as mysteriously as she had come.  
"Go." With that, she was gone as well. The Master closed his eyes, reveling in what he had been told. Overwhelmed by the experience, he took in several deep breaths. After regaining some control, he got shakily to his feet and continued into the library, to consult his texts, pray, and prepare for the task that the Pagh'Wraiths had assigned him.   
  
Ezri Dax awoke with a start, suddenly feeling as if she weren't alone. Momentary disorientation accompanied her waking before she realized where she was. Back here again. It seemed as if she were spending every waking moment in Worf's quarters. Ezri was finding it easier to be in these rooms now. During the week she'd become able to tolerate and repress most of the memories that threatened to overtake her tired and pressured mind. The Trill raised her head from her arms. She'd been kneeling at the foot of Worf and Jadzia's bed and had apparently fallen asleep. Her legs had done just that; she stiffly stood and stretched them out, wincing as her blood began to circulate once more. Ezri turned, surveying the room, and felt hopelessness sweep over her. It had been...how many days now? Six? Seven? During that time, she'd rummaged through Worf's quarters, perused his comm logs, racked her memory for facts, and come up with nothing. Benjamin was frustrated, too. Since Worf had always been such a loyal officer, he was dismayed that the Klingon had run off like this, noble as his cause may have been. He pitied Worf; the disciplinary action that Starfleet would have in store was going to be anything but pleasant.   
Ezri noticed the time on the chronometer hanging on the wall. Ben had called a meeting this afternoon to check up on the crew's progress. She still had a little time to spare before her presence was required in the wardroom. Pacing back out into the living room and walking slowly around the perimeter, she danced her fingers wearily over the items hanging on the walls. A picture she had missed before was hung next to the window. Ezri stopped and studied it, feeling tears well up in the corners of her eyes. The milieu for this photo was, again, Risa. Worf stood on a dock on a beautiful sunny day, holding Jadzia as easily as a child in his arms. Her lips were poised to plant a kiss on his cheek. There had presumably been wind that day on the beach, for Jadzia's short blue dress and long hair were fluttering gently. Ezri closed her eyes, remembering that Julian had taken the picture, trying unsuccessfully as he did so to hide his expression of jealousy. A smile flitted across her lips at the memory of Worf tossing Jadzia into the ocean after that pose. She certainly hadn't expected that. Jadzia had trusted the Klingon not to drop her, and he hadn't- not on the dock, anyway.   
A chirp and a voice came from thin air.  
"Sisko to Dax." Ezri's eyelids snapped open. The meeting!  
"Dax here."  
"Where are you, Old Man? We're all waiting."  
"Sorry, Ben, I'll be right up. Time sort of got away from me." Ezri left Worf's quarters and took the shortest route to the wardroom. When she entered, she saw that the rest of the crew and Garak were indeed already gathered and looked as if they had been for some time. Sisko waited until she'd seated herself to ask,  
"Now that we're all here, who's got something positive to share?" No one spoke. Sisko looked around. "Okay. Anything at all, encouraging or otherwise?" O'Brien, seated at the captain's right, made his report first.  
"I've been trying to trace the Shenandoah's ion trail like you said, sir, but it was nearly impossible to find any residue from the nacelles. For one thing, it's been too long, so the trail's dissipated considerably. Secondly, the cloak masked the neutrino emissions. All I can tell you is what we saw: Worf went into Cardassian space. Nothing more detailed. Sorry, sir."  
"Thank you, Chief." Odo was next.  
"Starfleet Intelligence reports gave no indication to Dukat's whereabouts," he said in his gravelly voice, "nor did they have anything new about Dukat's transient admission back into the Dominion. I asked Starfleet to forward any future information directly here, so we'll be among the first to know if anything does turn up." Kira was sitting on Odo's other side.  
  
"I contacted various religious circles on Bajor, but they weren't willing to volunteer any information. As you know, my people can be very touchy when it comes to matters of religion, especially the Pagh'Wraiths. I did get a few leads from an anonymous source, though, and I'm still checking up on those." The captain nodded, somewhat encouraged that they had this tiny bit of possibility to cling to.   
"Good, Colonel. Old Man, what've you got?"  
"Take three guesses, and the first two don't count." Sisko sighed and resisted the urge to massage his temples to ward off a headache.  
"Oh well, you've been trying." Without waiting to be asked, Garak cut in,  
"I for one have information that will prove interesting. It seems Weyoun didn't tell you the whole story, Captain. According to my sources, Dukat is wanted not just for defection, but for the murders of at least three Dominion citizens."   
"I'm not surprised," Kira said, slouching in her chair. "The only reason he formed the alliance with the Dominion in the first place was to get Cardassia back on its feet, not because he had any liking for them." Garak corrected,  
"Oh, I'm not talking about Jem'Hadar, Colonel. Only one of the victims was a Vorta. The other two were Cardassian." The Bajoran raised her eyebrows.   
"Now I'm surprised."   
"My contacts weren't able to give me reasons for the murders, but I would suspect they were something good. Dukat is one of the most ethnocentric men I've had the pleasure of knowing. To kill his fellow Cardassians would border on sacrilegious." Sisko nodded.   
"Thank you, Mr. Garak. Good work. Does anyone have anything else to add?" No one did, so he ended the meeting with "All right, people, keep on it. Dismissed."   
The captain brought up the rear of the line into Ops. He was just heading for the turbolift and the tranquillity of his quarters when a beep sounded at his back and an officer announced,   
"Captain, we're receiving a message from Dominion space. It's Weyoun, sir." The senior staff froze in their tracks, then as one turned toward him. Sisko didn't meet any of their gazes.  
"In my office," he said evenly. It wasn't long before he was again looking at the deceptive Vorta.   
"We still don't have Dukat, if that's what you want to talk to me about." For once Weyoun didn't have that nauseating smile plastered on his face. Sisko wasn't sure which he would have preferred: the insincere grin or the words that came next.  
"I'm afraid we can't believe you, Captain Sisko. On behalf of the Dominion, I am informing you that this is your final warning. Hand Dukat over to us or we will come and find him ourselves."   
"I'm telling you we don't have him!" Sisko exploded, regretting losing his composure as soon as the outburst passed his lips. But it was too late; the screen was dark and Weyoun was gone. Snatching up his baseball, he squeezed it as hard as he could, imagining that it was going to be crushed despite the tightly wound material inside. Getting his impotent fury under control, he stood up, replaced the ball on his desk, adjusted his uniform jacket, and went down into Ops to tell his crew the news.  
  
The Klingon seemed to be adjusting well to life in Bal'gurna. He no longer appeared so weary at the conclusion of the day, the Master observed as he watched from the lengthening shadows. Now his stride was longer, his walk more confident. The Master wasn't sure if that was a sign of rebelliousness or not. Anxiously he looked down at the object he clutched between his damp palms. Hidden in the folds of his sleeves, the silver mek'leth still gleamed, despite the elements it had been recently exposed to. He felt a sort of alliance with the Klingon when he held the weapon. When he glanced up again, the Klingon had continued on to round the corner of a building and was no longer visible. No matter. From the podium tomorrow, looking down over all his followers, gathered to hear his enlightened words, he would have an excellent view. He stole closer to the center of the city, keeping to the shadows like a predator on the prowl. Elij, Dela, and two of his followers were erecting a makeshift platform, from which he would address Bal'gurna's population. In a later time, perhaps the Klingon could stand there with him, preaching the goodness of the Pagh'Wraiths. As their community of worshippers expanded to include other worlds, other quadrants, and eventually the entire universe, they would be side by side, the two people with the deepest understanding and love for their gods, the only two who saw their true perfection. With that inspiring thought, the Master stepped back and faded into the darkness, withdrawing again into the pool of secrecy and intrigue in which he resided...for now.  
  
Dark had lain its velvet cloak completely upon Bal'gurna, but Tonika wasn't back yet. Worf and the rest of Barrack Seven were growing concerned, as her labor shift had ended over an hour ago. Kavi was pacing the small room worriedly.  
"Where is she? They couldn't possibly have kept her working, could they?"  
"Perhaps someone should go search for her," Worf suggested. "I will go, if necessary. If I keep to the shadows I should be able to stay out of sight of the guards." Kavi nodded but didn't stop her restless movement.  
"Good idea."  
"Wait, wait, wait," interrupted Pradak, holding up his hands. "Tonika's a big girl, remember? She can take care of herself. It probably wouldn't go over well if we came looking for her like she was a two-year-old lost on a busy street. Give her time; she'll be back." Kavi continued to argue, and Worf had to admit he wanted to go search for the girl. In addition to the fact that she was his friend, he felt an almost paternal instinct toward her, and wanted to protect and nurture her like the child he'd never had. She reminded him in so many ways of Jadzia.   
The bickering of his cellmates ceased abruptly as a steady creaking announced that someone was entering the barrack. A brown hand clasped the doorframe, and Tonika all but dragged herself inside. Her jumpsuit was torn and smudged, and a trickle of blood dripped from her split lip. Kavi was at her side at an instant.  
"Where were you? What happened? Are you all right?"  
"No." Hearing her hoarse voice croak out the word, Worf hurried across the room to support her on the other side. Together they helped Tonika hobble stiffly to the nearest bunk and sit down. Callahan sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulders.  
"Tonika? Talk to us." His voice had lost its usual playful tone. Tonika raised her head, locking her eyes with Worf's. In them he could see shock, anger, and a sense of violation.   
"It was the Cardassian guard," she finally elucidated. "The one that was in here the other day, after Jeric had stolen the biscuits. I'd quit working on time and was headed back here when he just jumped out from behind a building and grabbed me." Worf had a dreadful feeling he knew what was coming. Apparently Pradak's and Jeric's minds were going in the same direction, as they both stiffened. "I couldn't see who he was at first because it was so dark. At first I thought it was you, Dan, trying to play a joke on me. But then he shoved me up against the side of a building and started whispering...things..."  
"By the Prophets..." Kavi murmured, stunned. "Oh, Tonika, I'm so sorry." She moved onto the bunk and put her arms around the Klingon. Worf could see that this made Tonika slightly uncomfortable. She didn't want to be soothed- it could be seen as a sign of weakness- but she stayed still, more for the distressed Bajoran's sake than her own. No one, least of all Worf, was sure what to say. Despite the fact that he sympathized for Tonika, he couldn't help but think what he would have done if his beloved Jadzia had been violated in this manner.   
"My people often quote an ancient Romulan philosopher," Pradak said finally, breaking the awkward, ominous silence. " 'The rivers run crimson with the blood of the slaughtered and the fields lay infertile, devastated by the flames as destructive as the hatred that separates two enemies. In those times of despair, somewhere therein dwells a flicker of hope. Seek it, grasp it, and all will not be lost.'"  
"What does that mean?" the Klingon girl inquired wearily.  
"It means that even when things may seem bleak and desperate, or when things are going especially bad, there's always something you can believe in." She was quiet for a long moment, then said,  
"I just want to sleep now."   
"We all need to rest," agreed Worf. A short while after, the lamp was blown out and the barrack was dark. No one slept much that night.   
  
There was none of the usual forced banter around the breakfast circle the next morning. The mood was somber and the tension thick. After a long stretch of silence, Tonika suddenly said,  
"When we go out today, you all have to act like nothing happened last night."   
"Why?" Pradak asked. Tonika picked up a biscuit but didn't bite it.  
"If the guards get any idea that something's wrong, I guarantee you they'll find a way to use it against us." She was right, as usual. It was surprising how much wisdom and experience could be concealed in such a young body.  
"Did you hear about the gathering this morning?" Jeric asked. It was rare that the Bolian spoke more than a few words, but in this case he apparently felt obligated to steer the conversation away from sexual abuse. There was a chorus of "no's" from around the room.   
"I heard some of the guards talking about it yesterday," Jeric continued. "There's supposed to be an important announcement."  
"Important to them, you mean," Kavi scoffed. "No doubt it means more work for us."   
"Oh, I don't know," said Callahan. "Maybe they just want to tell us that Thursday is free beer night from now on." The Bajoran rolled her eyes, but the quip elicited a good-natured snort from Pradak, and Tonika punched the commander lightly in the arm. He moved as if to return her playful blow, but suddenly he hesitated and hastily returned his fist to his lap, face flushing red. The room lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Tonika stared gloomily at the biscuit she held and tossed it back into the bag. The slump of her shoulders said What's wrong with you? Just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time last night doesn't mean I'm a different person, or a dirty one. I need your support, more now than ever, so don't go shying away from me just because you're ill at ease with the fact that a fellow man decided to take what wasn't his. Hey, it wasn't exactly a party for me, either. It's not my fault. As if on cue, the door burst open and a Cardassian, thankfully not the head guard, barged in with the abruptness that was characteristic of all the soldiers.   
"The assembly's in five minutes. Be there or you work double shifts." He hurried out as quickly as he'd come, as if being in the same room with his prisoners would reduce him to their level. Callahan stood, ironically grateful for the diversion, and sighed,  
"Let's go."   
As the group walked towards the center of Bal'gurna, an increasing rumble of voices met their ears, indicating that a large crowd had gathered. And it was quite large; Worf hadn't even known that this many people could fit inside the walls of the city. It surprised him also how few guards there were compared to the sheer number of prisoners. Every once in a while, he would catch a glimpse of an armor-clad Cardassian scattered through the swarms of people. How easy it would be to rebel if all who gathered here turned on them at once! One of those guards approached Tonika and fell into step beside her. She ignored him until he sneered,  
"I hear you had a meeting with one of our officers last night. Was it business or pleasure?" Apparently the head guard had been boasting to his comrades about his conquest. Tonika didn't miss a beat.  
"I'd dislodge that dead animal crammed up your ass sometime soon if I were you." In the background, Worf heard Kavi and Callahan choking back laughter. The Cardassian's eyes widened, and his pasty gray lips curled into a snarl.  
"How dare you speak to me in that manner!"  
"It's easy." Before the guard knew it, his nose had been introduced to Tonika's knuckles with a bone-jarring crunch. He howled in pain and staggered back, clapping his hands to his face to assess the damage. Unfortunately for him, he'd needed both hands to hold his phaser, and since those two appendages were unavailable, the weapon lay temptingly in the dust. Tonika snatched it up and stuffed it into her boot. Worf stepped easily in and grasped the guard's head, twisting it around with a satisfying snap. He fell, dead, at the Klingon's feet. As Worf watched the body hit the ground, he felt an overwhelming surge of power. He hadn't known how much he'd needed an outlet for his anger. A familiar voice spoke in his head.   
You're such a true Klingon, parmach'kai. I love that about you. Never change.  
"I love you, Jadzia," he whispered, not realizing he had spoken aloud until Kavi asked,  
"Worf? Did you say something?"  
"I did not," he answered hurriedly, striding towards the mass of people again. Tonika turned to him and murmured, so the others couldn't hear,  
"I needed that. How about you?"  
"It was...invigorating," he agreed. They split up, Jeric and Kavi going in one direction, Callahan and Pradak in the other, and the two Klingons shoving up to the front to get a better idea of what was going on. A hush fell over the crowd as a robed figure stepped up onto the raised platform. The folds of fabric obscured the person's face and gender, but they carried themself proudly upright, like someone accustomed to being obeyed. The believers were the first to fall to their knees. Everyone else followed after urging from the guards. Tonika's fingers grasped Worf's arm.  
"By Kahless!" she hissed in his ear. "Worf, that's the Master!" He stared at her.  
"Are you positive?"  
"Well, who else would it be if we're on the ground like this? A Pagh'Wraith?"   
Stranger things have happened, he wanted to argue, but she had a point. The figure spoke.  
"My loyal followers." Worf's head snapped up.   
It can't be...  
"The glorious Pagh'Wraiths themselves have instructed me to speak to you." Elij appeared from nowhere and slipped a wrinkled scroll into the hand of the Master, who unrolled it. "Your labors have been fruitful in the eyes of your gods. The city of Bal'gurna is nearing completion. Have no doubt: you will be rewarded." A string of Bajoran obscenities rose from somewhere to Worf's right. A phaser blast rang out, and then the voice was silent. The Master continued, not seeming to notice.  
"The Pagh'Wraiths have informed me that the time will soon be upon us when they will come down from their holy realm and speak to you all, with me as their physical intermediary." Cheers rang out from the believers in the crowd. The people imprisoned against their will answered with scornful yells of their own, and soon the noise had escalated to an unbearable level.  
"Hear me!" bellowed the Master in a booming voice. The crowd was deathly quiet. "However, you are required to perform one more task before this privilege is given to you. Six of you- a unique six- have been selected to build a gateway for the Pagh'Wraiths in the form of a magnificent palace, where I will reside to give me easier access to speak to the gods. The fortunate few inhabit Barrack 7." Dispersed throughout the throngs of prisoners, the jaws of Pradak, Kavi, Jeric, Callahan, and Tonika dropped, disbelieving. Anger would come a moment later. Worf, however, did not react.   
"They may seem unlikely for the task, but they have been chosen because they are so. By constructing the gateway, the rebels will be raising themselves in the eyes of the gods. Their own eyes, hearts, and minds will be opened, and they will finally see the heaven that they have been denying themselves. You will all feel the love of the Pagh'Wraiths!" The Master spread his arms as if trying to gather the stunned crowd into them. Tonika muttered,  
"Sorry, Dan- no free beer." But Worf didn't hear her, as he had heard nothing beyond the Master's first words. Two voices were sounding in his mind. One was Jadzia's last soft, desperate whisper, penetrating his heart and soul like a sharpened blade. The other was the same voice that had haunted and enraged him ever since he parted with that whisper, the voice that ignited such a burning, passionate fire of hatred within him that every inch of his body seemed to be aflame with fury and an uncontrollable urge to do one thing: strike...and kill. The voice of the Master, so infuriatingly near, and so evil. It was the voice of Gul Dukat.   
  
~Quick little note from Trillgirl~  
I came up with the "Master" plot line way before "Covenant" aired, so boy was I surprised when I saw it! Just so you know, I didn't copy TPTB, they copied me. No grudges here...grrr.... The ep had some nifty details, though, so I just borrowed 'em.   
  



End file.
